


Echoes of Mercy, Whispers of Love

by stoplightglow



Series: Mercy 'verse [1]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angels, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Catholicism, Coming Out, Dreams and Nightmares, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religion, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Translation Available, Wing Kink, Wingfic, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoplightglow/pseuds/stoplightglow
Summary: They say the Lord works in mysterious ways, but Frank Iero has about had it. His band broke up, he's stuck in Belleville, and he's never felt further from his faith. He desperately needs something to believe in.Enter Gerard Way, the bright-eyed stranger Frank just can't seem to stay away from.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Series: Mercy 'verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2180985
Comments: 38
Kudos: 155





	Echoes of Mercy, Whispers of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venomwolves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomwolves/gifts).



> a few months ago, anna and i decided it was high time we collab on a project. she loves wing!fics, so i wrote this, and she made spectacular art that you can find linked at the end (it's a little bit spoiler-y). make sure to check it out and tell her how amazing she is!!
> 
> thank you to nat, who sat with me through pretty much all five stages of grief while i wrote this thing. they helped me grow this story from a vague hand gesture to a real plot, and then did a fantastic beta job to boot. another thank you to saint mercy, who went through it all with a fine-tooth comb and offered their trademark brilliant insights. you guys are my dream team <3
> 
> title from fanny j. crosby's hymn, "blessed assurance"
> 
> translation into русский by scorpions available [here!](https://ficbook.net/readfic/10147608)
> 
> _disclaimer: i was not raised catholic, and i apologize for any mistakes or oversights. additionally, opinions expressed by the characters do not necessarily represent my own._
> 
> **warnings for homophobia, potentially disturbing descriptions of nightmares, familial conflict, and minor non-graphic gun violence. please stay safe.**

Frank smooths out his Black Flag banner and tacks down the bottom right corner before sitting back on the end of his bed. He sighs. The banner is just one dark rectangle against four empty beige walls, but it’s a start.

“If you want to redecorate your room, I can find things for you,” his mom calls from the doorway. She’s got her arms crossed and her light green book club dress on. “You didn’t have to bring your entire dorm home.”

“I’ve got it handled.” Frank reaches for his Texas Chainsaw Massacre poster and more thumb tacks. Yeah, it technically isn’t necessary to bring everything home for spring break, but that’s if this was only going to be for spring break. “I just wanted to be comfortable. And I needed to swap out some clothes,” he lies. 

She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “I don’t see how looking at all that blood could make you comfortable. They’re having a charity drive down at Saint Peter’s, I could pick up any leftover decor for you.”

“I’ve got it,” Frank repeats, duller this time.

“I just hate to see these influences on you,” she says, and Frank grits his teeth. “Maybe when you head back to school in a few weeks, we could store all this away?”

Frank stares up at the wretched image of Sally like she’s a saint and counts backward from ten. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Good.” Having gotten half a confirmation, his mom switches topics swiftly. “Are you coming to the potluck tonight with your father and I?”

Frank flashes back to the last potluck he was forced to attend, wincing at the memory of the church’s dusty basement and three hours of pretending to be someone he isn’t. “No, I’m going out tonight. I’ll heat up something in the fridge.”

“Are you sure?” She frowns, that fake, practiced frown she’s been guilting him with his whole life. “It’s been so long, I’m sure everyone would love to catch up with you.”

Frank barely resists rolling his eyes. Right, because he’s such a golden child. He’d be better off crucifying himself. “Tell them I said hi.”

“I’ll let them know about your good news,” she says with a close-lipped smile. Frank prickles like a porcupine. He’d hardly call his band breaking up _good news._ He’s tempted to blurt out the whole truth just to spoil her night, to wipe that look off her face, but he holds his tongue.

“See you tomorrow, then,” Frank tells the picture of Sally.

“Mass in the morning, don’t forget,” his mom says as she shuts his door behind herself.

“How could I,” Frank mutters.

*

Frank takes his dad’s old sedan and heads to Beelzebub’s, his favorite sticky-floored establishment from high school. He hasn’t been here since Pencey played the bar two years ago, but it looks exactly the same from the outside, crooked wooden sign and all. If he stares into the inky shadows by the back door, he can practically see the pathetic lot of them, dragging their equipment inside and shoving at each other’s shoulders. The memory stings.

That was before everything imploded. Now he’s alone, squinting at nothing in the parking lot.

The bass of the band inside rolls out into the night air as the door swings open and a few people sneak out for a smoke break. Frank catches the door and slips inside, smiling at the bouncer with as much charm as he can muster. He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans to grab his ID.

The lights are low, even by the front. The floor seems decently packed but not intimidatingly so; Frank can definitely weasel his way in and strike up conversations, find musicians for his new band, whatever. He’s liking his chances. 

That is, until the bouncer pulls out a flashlight and leans in to scrutinize his photo. His square face splits into a nasty grin. He promptly pulls out scissors and cuts Frank’s ID in half.

Frank stares in shock at what used to be his most successful fake. He’d painted the town red with it back at Rutgers, no problems and no questions asked. “What the hell, man? Now I’m going to have to go to the DMV!”

The bouncer raises an eyebrow. “Sure you will,” he starts, stopping to read the ID again. “Roger Carmichael.”

“Fuck,” Frank curses under his breath. Roger had done good by him. It’s heartbreaking to see him in pieces. Frank shoves his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket and puts on his most innocent look. “I can still get in though, right? Just X me?”

Chuckling to himself, the bouncer shakes his head. Frank wilts like an unwatered house plant. “I used to play here when I was in a band, you know,” he pleads. “The owners might remember me.”

“Yeah, the way someone remembers a rash,” says the bouncer, pointing to the door and whistling.

Frank lets the door slam behind him on his way out. So much for networking. Being home sucks so much — maybe he shouldn’t have committed to doing it indefinitely, but, too late.

He briefly considers going somewhere else, before he remembers it’s fucking Belleville and there _is_ nowhere else to go tonight. Leaning against the bar’s brick exterior, he fishes out his lighter and shakes a cigarette out of his carton. He has to shield the flame from the end-of-winter breeze as he lights up.

A few other smokers linger nearby, two girls and a guy, so Frank makes cheap conversation with them. He asks them about the band inside before casually mentioning the act he’s trying to put together. They politely decline, but it just about kills the small talk, and they apologize awkwardly before heading back inside. Because they’re allowed to do that.

He catches the attention of two more dudes on their way inside and they’re so stoned that they immediately agree to be in Frank’s band and suggest they start touring tomorrow, preferably in California or on the moon.

“Can either of you actually play an instrument?” Frank asks warily.

“Keytar.” The taller dude points just over Frank’s left shoulder and grins. “Always wanted to learn.”

Good God. Frank gets rid of them after promising to call them, and thankfully neither of them realize he doesn’t have their numbers. They’re the bouncer’s problem now.

He lights up another cigarette as he idles. He’s not ready to go home yet, even though the night has been a total bust and the extra sleep would probably do him good. Once he really settles back into living at home, he’s going to miss smoking freely like this, so he may as well take advantage. He looks up as he exhales. It’s cloudy tonight, except for one spot, a break in the grey that he can see some stars through.

When he looks back down, a stranger is standing in front of him. Frank startles. He hadn’t heard the guy approach over the music inside. “Uh, hi?”

The dude smiles lopsidedly, and Frank can’t tell if he’s being made fun of. “Got a light?” he asks. His face is pale and smooth in the moonlight, stringy black hair tucked behind his ears, almost long enough to brush the shoulders of his beat-up leather jacket. He can’t be more than a few years older than Frank.

Humming amicably, Frank goes to pass over his lighter, but the dude just dangles his smoke between his lips and leans in. He looks up at Frank through his eyelashes, and Frank’s hand almost slips. There’s a glimmer behind his hazel eyes that Frank has never seen before. Like he’s glowing from the inside or something.

“Don’t leave me hanging,” the guy says out of the side of his mouth. Frank comes back to himself and flicks the flame on. Must have been a trick of the light.

The guy nods appreciatively and rocks back into his own space. He takes a drag before offering, “I’m Gerard. You?”

“Frank.”

“Thanks for the light, Frank.”

Frank is abruptly reminded of his own smoke, smoldering away between his fingers. He brings it to his mouth. “Did you get kicked out too?” he asks as he breathes out.

Gerard shakes his head. Frank watches his cherry move in the low light. His hands splay all weird as he smokes, and Frank can’t stop glancing at them. “No. What’d you do?”

“Fake ID,” Frank says bitterly.

“Ouch,” Gerard sympathizes. “Been there.”

“But let me guess, now you’re legal and the world bows at your feet?”

“Yeah, mortals tremble at the sight of my driver’s license.” With a dorky little snort, Gerard looks at the ground. “No, actually, it's not much use. I don’t drink anymore.”

“What?” Frank blinks at him. “Dude, then why are you here? I heard this band is shit.”

“They could be worse.” Gerard’s grin isn’t convincing.

Frank sighs. “God, there really is nothing to do in this fucking town.”

“I’m sure there are other things.” Gerard shrugs, and it makes some of the hardware on his jacket clink. “I just always end up here. I can’t help it.”

Frank gets that. He feels that magnetism, dragging him out to places he’d be better off without. It was nice when he didn’t have to bury his impulses at school, but now that he’s back, it’s tugging him in too many directions. “I always wonder, like, why I’m not pulled towards the good things,” he says. Then his brain catches up and realizes how strange that sounds, and he stutters out, “I mean, I don’t know.” 

Gerard just nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, me too.” The silence that follows is long and uncomfortably pensive to share with a near-stranger. Finally, Gerard says, “Why are _you_ here? If you know the band is shit?”

“I’m here on business, not pleasure.”

“That’s a shame,” Gerard murmurs, so quickly Frank isn’t sure he hears him right. “What kind of business?”

Frank hesitates. It’s one thing to approach strangers and tell them he’s betting it all on a band, but being asked by a cute guy is a different ordeal. He tilts his chin up in an effort to look a little taller. “I’m trying to put a band together.”

Gerard raises his eyebrows. “How’s that going?”

“Not so great.” Frank tries to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. “It’s like — I used to front this band called Pencey Prep, and we were pretty popular around Jersey. I really thought we were going somewhere. But it all just imploded a few months ago, and now it feels like it was never anything at all. Do you know what I mean?”

Ashing onto the ground, Gerard averts his gaze. “Yeah, I know how that feels.”

“You do?” Frank’s voice lifts hopefully. “Were you in a band?” If Gerard can play an instrument and look this good in a leather jacket, his night might just turn around after all.

Gerard pauses conspicuously. “No, more like a long-term relationship. When it ended a few years ago, I didn’t know who I was, because I’d pretty much spent my whole life being defined by it.”

“Oh.” Frank tries to keep his disappointment off his face. “That’s a little different.”

Gerard makes a wishy-washy hand gesture. “You might be surprised.”

“Maybe,” Frank concedes from around his cigarette. “I need this band to work, though. It has to. I’m out of other options.” 

He’s cut off from explaining more as the door opens and gig-goers come streaming out. That’s probably for the better; he doesn’t need to spill any more of his guts tonight. But shit, the show is already over. It must be way later than he thought.

“You need to go?” Gerard asks, reading him. Frank looks over to the parking lot, where cars are starting to line up on their way out, headlights cutting out silhouettes in the darkness. 

“I probably should. I have church in the morning.” The truth slips out before he can bite his tongue, and he bristles. Fuck. He hates how innocent religion makes him sound, not to mention all the other stereotypes that trail it.

But Gerard doesn’t bat an eye. He just nods.

Frank rocks back on his heels. He considers asking Gerard for his number, or what show he’s going to next, but one look at his face squashes the thought. He can’t do that if he’s going to face the Father tomorrow. He ends up just saying goodnight.

“Drive safe,” Gerard says with a wonky kind of wave, his finger spread too far apart to accommodate his stub of a cigarette. Frank lets himself look back over his shoulder at him, but only once.

*

Frank gets drowsy on the drive home and falls into bed exhausted. It’s annoying that he didn’t make any progress on his new band the whole night, but he doesn’t have the energy left to try and tackle the problem from a different angle. He lets his eyes drift shut instead.

When he opens them again, he’s surrounded by darkness.

Feeling around, he tries to discern where he is; logically, he should be in his bedroom, but it never gets so pitch-black in there. And the surface beneath him is far too hard to be a mattress. He waits, expecting his eyes to adjust. 

Eventually, he does see something. Then he wishes he hadn’t.

A black tendril, thin and curling like a vine, crawls lazily towards him. He’s on his back, so it must be approaching from the ceiling; he looks at his feet and notices another inching along the floor. “Finally, you’re here,” comes a disembodied voice, sinister in a way that makes Frank’s skin crawl.

Wanting to answer, he attempts to open his mouth, but his lips won’t move. Oh, shit. He tries again, really focusing on prying them apart. Nothing happens.

Okay, if he can’t talk, he’ll just leave. He moves to stand, but his extremities give out as soon as he puts weight on them. Fuck. He can’t control his body.

His motion seems to anger the vines. They come at him faster, sliding through the darkness synchronously. The sight makes Frank’s stomach turn over. Nothing should be able to move like that, so effortlessly, so — so _inescapably._ They stop above him, rearing like they’re poised to attack.

 _Don’t,_ Frank cries internally as terror grips him. _Don’t, don’t, don’t._ But it’s inevitable; the vine on the floor wraps around his ankles. The one from above tantalizes him, dragging slowly over his chest, before going for his neck.

Thorns sink into his feet and pain shoots up his legs, bright and nauseating. The hold on his neck tightens and chokes him. “Isn’t this what you expected?” the voice hisses. “Isn’t this what you expected all along?”

He tears at his throat, trying to loosen the vine’s grip, but he can’t get a hold of it. _You’re going to kill me,_ he wants to scream.

“Do you think we can?” whispers the voice, right next to his ear. The vine around his ankles inches up his calf. Frank convulses, but he can’t shake it off; his leg has gone numb. “Will you let us?”

Pain overwhelms Frank as thorns tear open his leg and jugular vein at the same time. His mouth finally falls open but makes no sound. The world flashes, pure white like Heaven, right before he passes out.

He bolts upright in bed, sweating. His hands fly to his throat. Nothing is there. It wasn’t real.

*

As much as Frank despises last night’s bouncer, maybe he should thank him. It turns out that alcohol would have been a really bad idea; when Frank wakes up the next morning, his head pounds brutally, hangover not required. He lies in bed for a moment while the images from his nightmare flash in his mind’s eye. It’d been so palpable. If he closes his eyes, he can still feel the pressure on his windpipe.

“Come on, get dressed,” his dad yells through the door, rapping on it twice for emphasis. Frank squeezes his eyes shut and flips the bird with both hands in the direction of his voice. He feels all of sixteen again, pissed off about having to put on his Sunday best along with all of the other injustices in the world.

“I’m up,” Frank groans, despite very much not being up.

“You know how your mother likes to get there early,” his dad says. There’s a hint of exhaustion in his voice too, like he also knows it’s ridiculous to wake up with the sun just so they can be in the front row and have the Father stare at them.

Still, it’s what they do, so Frank rubs his knuckles into his eyes, gets out of bed, and puts on his itchy suit. His mom puts her hands over her mouth in delight when she sees him. He gets caught somewhere between wanting to cross his arms and hug her, because he does like making her happy, he just wishes he didn’t have to put on a fucking suit to do so.

Unsurprisingly, Saint Peter’s looks exactly the same as it did when Frank was dragged to a service over winter break, albeit with fewer poinsettias. Frank can’t deny the warm feeling that spreads through him as he drinks in the familiar atmosphere: the immenseness of the high ceiling and the jewel-like beauty of the stained glass. If only it wasn’t tampered by a nasty layer of guilt. He sits down with his parents and shakes hands with Father Montgomery as the rest of the congregation files in. The Father hasn’t changed either, still bearded, grey, and gentle.

Frank can still follow along on autopilot, so he clears his mind and lets his body go through the motions, standing when he needs to and murmuring along. He keeps his head strictly empty when it’s bowed. He doesn’t know what he’d pray for. He doesn’t want to know.

It’s all completely perfunctory until he rises for the Lord’s Prayer, when Frank gets the unmistakable feeling that he’s being watched. Shame flushes through him hot and acidic as his immediate instinct tells him that he’s been found out, that someone has somehow gotten into his brain and knows he’s not really praying, and he barely keeps himself from looking back to find out.

As soon as the Father announces the Sign of Peace, he spins around and gives the old man behind him a hearty handshake. The old man smiles wanly, seeming surprised. They exchange small talk for half a minute until the Father calls for everyone to be seated, but Frank snatches the opportunity and stands for a second longer. His eyes skip over the crowd rapidly. Nothing looks out-of-place enough to give him the heebie-jeebies. 

That is, until his gaze lands on the furthest pew, where he sees the very last person he would have ever expected. The guy from the dive bar. _Gerard._ He’s still in his black leather jacket and ripped jeans from last night, sticking out like a sore thumb.

Frank sits down quickly and folds his hands between his knees. His mom raises her eyebrows but doesn’t whisper anything accusatory at him. She probably just doesn’t want to interrupt the Father.

Once the service ends, she ushers Frank out of the pew and says, “Time for Confession, Frankie. You go first.”

On his way up the aisle, Frank keeps an eye out for Gerard so he can say hi or, Frank doesn’t fucking know, get his number like he should’ve done last night. But by the time Frank gets to the back of the church, Gerard is gone.

*

Frank gives the wall of the confessional a long, withering glare before he speaks. The incense in the air is giving his headache new life, and the wooden floor makes his knees ache as he kneels. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he intones. “It’s been, I don’t know. A few months since my last confession.”

“Tell me your sins, my son,” says Father Montgomery through the screen and curtain.

Frank takes a breath and sorts out his thoughts. He’s not going to confess to the trivial things he used to need forgiveness for when he was in Catholic school, like jacking off and thinking impurely and telling white lies. But then a bigger lie crosses his mind, and he says, “I’ve been dishonest with my parents.”

When he fails to elaborate, the Father prompts, “Go on, please.”

Frank shifts his hands from his knees to the floor, pressing flat-palmed against it. “I dropped out of college to start a band. And I haven’t told them yet.” He resents that the admission immediately makes him feel lighter.

“Oh, my child,” the Father says, voice sorrowful. “It does not serve us or the Lord well to withhold the truth.”

“I know.” But that doesn’t make Frank dread being honest any less.

“Have you anything else to confess?” asks the Father.

Frank’s fingers curl, nails digging into his palms. He knows he could say it, technically, and the Sacramental Seal would protect him. But then Father Montgomery would always look at him differently, and his mom would notice, and it would all come unraveling. He can’t risk it. He just can’t, not even for one second of relief.

“That’s all, Father.”

Father Montgomery pauses for a long moment. “I have a quote for you, from dear Saint John Vianney. It may aid you. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes, sure.”

“‘Do not try to please everybody,’ Saint John Vianney said. “‘Try to please God, the angels, and the saints. They are your public.’”

“Okay, Father.”

“Do you understand?”

“I’ll try.”

“Good,” says the Father. “A dozen Hail Marys.”

“Thank you, Father.” Frank gets to his feet and ducks out of the booth, breathing in fresh air. Well, fresher air. He needs to get out of this church already.

“I’ll meet you outside,” he tells his parents as his mom moves to take his place in the booth. His dad nods so he takes off, weaving through the stragglers until he’s on the front steps. He leans against the railing, letting his body relax for the first time since stepping onto the property. He’ll just wait here. 

He’s looking down to watch the ants when a strange shadow enters his peripheral. On the sidewalk below is the shape of a human, but with two swooping points coming out of the torso. Like — Frank squints at it. Like wings, almost.

He turns around and looks up towards the towers on either side of the sloped roof and the cross between them, trying to see if there are any statutes that could have created the illusion. It’s too bright to make anything out. All he can see is grey and brown stone cutting against the sky. 

Back on the ground, the shadow has disappeared. He really needs to get more sleep if he wants to stop imagining things.

*

Standing on the ratty grey carpet in Kinko’s, Frank watches the copier spit out his flyers. He picks up the stack once the machine finishes and uses scissors to slice up the bottom into tear-away tabs with his phone number on them.

He stares down at the sheets. All he could scrounge together is an old photo of him performing in Pencey with MUSICIANS WANTED FOR KICKASS BAND, CONTACT FRANK IERO scribbled above it in black marker. It’ll have to do.

He tacks one up on the bulletin board of the shop where he bought his guitar, the record store on the street over, the ice cream place he worked at in high school, the new hipster coffee joint, and in the pawn shop window for good measure.

On his walk back home, he peers into the record store and sees some teenagers ripping off the tabs with his phone number and leaving them to flurry to the ground. Frank's heart sinks right down with them.

*

“Did you go out today?”

Frank pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth, looking at his mom. His cheesy broccoli droops. “Uh, yeah. Why?”

“I was just wondering,” she says. Her hands fold on top of one another on the table. “Where did you go?”

Frank shoves the broccoli into his mouth and talks around it just so his speech is muffled. “Around town. To hang up flyers.”

“Flyers for what?” she asks delicately.

God, Frank really, really doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. He’s not in the mood to set himself up to get knocked down again today. In desperation, he glances over at his dad, but his expression is totally blank. “What do you think?” Frank says tersely.

“Frankie,” says his mom, and Frank braces himself for it. “If you miss playing guitar, Father Montgomery would love to have you come play for the kids. It could be really great for them.”

Frank thinks about playing Christian rock for a bunch of preschoolers and bile almost rises in his throat. Some of those kids are cute, but he needs his own world to play his own music, someplace where he can do all the things the Church thinks he’s going to Hell for. “Sorry to let down the Father.”

“You might let down the Father, but you can never let down God,” she says. Frank can’t help but wonder if it’s a statement or a prayer.

*

Days pass and Frank gets no calls. He sits on the couch and fidgets, trying to be patient.

Then, in the middle of a horror movie and sulk session, his phone buzzes with an unknown number. He lunges for it, nearly knocking it off the cushion, and flips it open as he brings it to his ear. 

“This is Frank,” he says breathlessly.

“Hi!” comes a somewhat-familiar voice. Frank doesn’t have time to fully place it before, “It’s Gerard? From Beelzebub’s? I’m not sure if you remember me.”

“Gerard.” Frank’s eyebrows knit. Of course he remembers Gerard; he just doesn’t know why he’s calling. They’d established the other night that he isn’t a musician. “Did you get my number off my flyer?”

“Is that weird?” Gerard asks tentatively, and the corners of Frank’s mouth curl up involuntarily. “I just ran across it and I recognized you in the photo. It felt like too much of a coincidence to ignore.”

“Were a lot of the slips gone?” Frank has to ask.

“About half.”

Frank’s head falls forward. “That’s funny, since you’re the first call I’ve gotten.”

“Oh, shit,” Gerard says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay, I shouldn’t have expectations.” Even though Frank totally, totally does. Why would people take his number and then _not call?_ Don’t they get the concept of the advertisement? “Sorry, why were you calling?”

“Oh, I wanted to know if you have plans tonight. I’m making dinner. You could come over? It might take your mind off things.”

Frank’s train of thought slows to a halt. Is Gerard asking him on a _date?_

He squashes the idea immediately. Gerard could just be a Good Samaritan, or somehow as lonely as Frank is. He’d talked about the end of his long-term relationship with the same gravity Frank felt about the end of Pencey. He probably just wants to commiserate with another loser.

“I’m a vegetarian,” says Frank.

“Good thing I didn’t put meat in the spaghetti sauce.”

“You’re making spaghetti?”

Gerard laughs self-deprecatingly. “I’m really not that much of a chef. I can only cook things that won’t burn.”

“You can burn spaghetti,” Frank warns. He did learn _some_ things in college. “Yeah, I’ll come over. I was looking for an excuse to ditch game night at the church anyway.” And there he goes again, just letting it tumble out. Fuck. The blunder reminds him, though, of another pressing question.

Before he can find his tact, Gerard says, “I’ll text you my address. Unburnt dinner will be served in an hour.”

After they hang up, Frank stares at his phone for a long minute, wondering what he’s gotten himself into.

*

Gerard’s apartment is small but has high ceilings. The walls are off-white like someone had meant to paint them and never gotten around to it. All of the furniture is grey or white, and Frank wonders if it was there when Gerard moved in, or if he just has a super drab design taste.

The kitchen takes up about half the space not including Gerard’s bedroom, and there he is in the middle of it, straining pasta in his fucking leather jacket. The guy apparently never takes a day off from fashion.

“You can sit down. I’ll bring the food over.” Gerard gestures towards the little table straddling the divide between the kitchen and main room. It’s a two person table, and Frank tries not to think about the closeness it will cause. 

“Okay,” he manages, pulling out a chair for himself. “Do you do this a lot?”

“Cook? No, clearly,” Gerard says, even as he comes over and prepares a plate for Frank like a complete gentleman.

“Have people over,” Frank clarifies.

Going still for a second, Gerard looks at him sideways. Frank has enough willpower not to redden, but it’s a close thing. “Also no.”

Gerard sits down across from him, the drag of his chair on the floor breaking the quiet. Frank twirls spaghetti on his fork. He’s grateful for the excuse to stare down at his plate. He’s starting to wonder how he got here — why he’d come over so easily, why it had felt like he was getting closer to where he belonged as he drove away from home.

“Not going to say grace?” Frank’s eyes snap up to Gerard and he’s half-smiling, his own fork still clean and off to the side. It’s impossible to tell if he’s kidding for a moment until he breaks into a full grin. The tightness in Frank’s shoulders eases.

“You were at my church last Sunday.” Once he’s done talking, Frank sticks his fork in his mouth so he can pull the spaghetti off of it and use it to point at Gerard. “I saw you. That was you, right?”

“Yeah, I saw you too.” Gerard pulls some Texas Toast off the plate between them. He seems unaffected, other than the fact that he won’t meet Frank’s eyes. “I didn’t know you’d be there, to be fair.”

“Do you normally go to Saint Peter’s?” asks Frank. Gerard doesn’t really seem like the type to normally go to _any_ church, especially alone like he had been, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s surprised Frank tonight.

Gerard stops and considers. “I normally go to _a_ church. It isn’t usually your church, but I liked it there, so I might stay for a while. I just felt a pull to go there that morning, and there’s no point in fighting that for the sake of tradition, you know?”

Frank, honestly, doesn’t know. His only two modes are fighting or following tradition. “I’m not religious,” he feels the need to say. “I mean, I guess I am, but not in the way that they are.”

“It’s complicated?” Gerard guesses.

Frank laughs into his glass of water. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Me too,” admits Gerard. “But you could probably tell based on the. . .” He trails off, gesturing vaguely at his appearance.

If nothing else, it’s a nice excuse to let his eyes linger on Gerard and silently appreciate the way his jacket fills out around his shoulders but tapers down towards the waist. “I don’t stereotype.”

Gerard’s gaze flicks away, and he grins conspiratorially. “You’re right. You’re not a real Catholic.”

Something nasty flares in Frank before he fully gets the joke. He’s not sure if he felt angry at Gerard for denouncing him or ashamed of himself for agreeing, but either way, he’s glad to not have to examine it.

He can’t think of anything funny to quip back, so he sits there chewing and making things awkward for a minute until Gerard says, “Tell me about it.”

Frank swallows and wipes marinara sauce from the side of his mouth before quickly licking it off his thumb, a bad habit he shouldn’t be doing at someone else’s dinner table. He can’t help but notice that Gerard’s eyes follow the movement. “About what?”

“About how you’re religious,” Gerard elaborates with a vague wave of his hand.

Alarm bells go off in Frank’s head and he narrows his eyes. Gerard’s tone is innocuous enough, but the words seem like a trap, like how kids at school used to try to trick him into outing himself or scene dudes would gang up on him and ask him how he liked his Catholic school skirt. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m curious,” Gerard says. His eyes are wide and luminescent, and somehow that makes Frank believe him. “Why else?”

“I don’t fit their mold.” Frank drops his utensil and folds his hands in his lap. He rolls his shoulders back purposely to fight the urge to fold in on himself. “Like, my idea of a good time involves thrashing around onstage and playing the Devil’s music, or whatever the fuck. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

Gerard hums and props his chin on his hand. “Do you believe in God?”

“Glad we’re starting with the light questions,” Frank mutters. “I don’t know, do you?”

“I can ask what your favorite color is, if you’d rather.”

“Orange,” Frank says stubbornly, and waits. Gerard smiles at him with his head still in his hand. Frank’s brain unhelpfully provides the word _beguiling._

Finally, Gerard says, “Yeah, I believe in God. What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Frank taps his foot under the table. “I mean, why commit to a one-sided relationship? Yes, I want to be loved like that, and to feel sure of everything like I did when I was younger, but I don’t know how to do it without taking out, like, a piece of myself.” He takes a deep breath and it rattles in his chest; he’s gotten more worked up than he should have. “I believe in God. God doesn’t believe in me. It’s easier not to think about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Gerard says softly. “I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

Frank hadn’t meant to _get_ upset. “No, sorry. It can just be a touchy subject.”

“Don’t apologize. I understand.”

And by the sincerity in Gerard’s voice, Frank kind of thinks he does. Or sympathizes, at the very least. That’s more than Frank is used to.

“So what’s your favorite color?” he asks, and Gerard laughs.

*

Frank comes home tired but content. No one has shown as much genuine interest in him as Gerard did in, well — Frank can’t remember, and that says it all. His mom and dad are back from the church and lounging on the couch together watching TV. He’s in such a good mood that he doesn’t even try to sneak past them and up to his room, instead plopping down in the adjacent armchair. 

“Where were you, honey?” His mom asks warmly, apparently in a good mood of her own.

“I had dinner with a friend,” says Frank.

His dad doesn’t take his eyes off the TV. “From school?”

“No, just from around town.”

Propping her elbow up on the couch’s armrest, his mom asks, “Was this a _lady_ friend?”

And just like that, Frank’s heart plunges into his stomach. The easy smile melts off his face as he stares blankly at his mom. He can’t have anything without his bitter reality ruining it, right, he should have remembered. “No.”

“I meant because you looked so happy.” His mom’s frown curves thin and ugly. “You never looked like that after you’d come home from hanging out with your old friends from the band. Don’t bite off my head for assuming, Frankie.”

And now she’s going to bring up his dead band and all his ex-friends. Of _course_ she is. He doesn’t bother keeping the snarl out of his voice as he says, “Well, I’m sorry for looking _happy._ It won’t happen again.”

“Frank,” says his dad, stern, as his mom’s mouth falls open. “You can’t take that tone with your mother.”

“Can we not talk about this? Any of this?” Maybe Frank had been naive to go over to Gerard’s, to have dinner and pretend like it wasn’t a date even as he toyed with the fantasy that it _could_ be, as if this isn’t the place he comes home to. The Virgin Mary stares at him from the mantle, a cold gaze only matched by his own mother. 

“I think your father and I deserve to know where you’ve been,” his mom snaps.

“It was a friend from church.” Frank figures that’s the best way to get them off his back, and it’s technically not a lie. That is all he’s going to give them, though. No name. Nothing they can use.

His mom throws a hand up. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

Gritting his teeth, Frank says something that is not the truth right now, but is true in general. “Because I’m _twenty_ and I shouldn’t have to explain my every move to my parents.”

“While you’re under our roof, you’ll answer our questions,” his dad says. “Save all the drama for when you go back to school.”

Yet another problem for the pile. Frank storms off to his room. If they’re going to treat him like a shitty teenager, he may as well act the part.

He stands in the middle of his room and stares at the fucking beige walls, just _hating_ them for a minute, before grabbing his electric guitar. He needs to blow off some steam. After plugging in his amp, he sits down on his bed and lets out a deep breath. His guitar feels heavier than he remembered it, and it settles wrong against his stomach. Probably because he hasn’t touched it since the breakup. He adjusts the instrument and warms up quickly, stretching his fingers, trying to shake off the dust.

He attempts to pluck his way through an old Pencey riff, but his fingers fumble. Slowing it down, he gives it another shot, only to sound even worse. 

Fine. Pencey’s not working. It was stupid to fucking try. He shakes himself out and decides to return to an old favorite instead. The Misfits never let him down, even when he was younger and could barely stretch his fingers across all the frets. 

Now, though, the song reverberates flatly around his room. His next attempt is just as bad. He drops his hand off the strings with a discordant, metallic noise that hurts his ears. 

He can’t play. 

When he strayed from God, he found music, and now music’s left him too. Now nothing believes in him.

*

This time, Frank recognizes the terror as a nightmare before he wakes up. But that doesn’t make it any better.

A vine has him again, but only one, and he dangles upside down from it as it holds him by the ankles. His head throbs as all the blood rushes down. Its thorns dig into him as he struggles. His efforts cause a little momentum, making him sway back and forth slightly, but the movement only dizzies him.

“No point,” whispers the same voice as before. “It doesn’t matter if we let you go. You’ll never let go of us. Isn’t that right, Frank?”

When Frank’s only response is panicked breathing, the vine, the sole thing holding him aloft, slides up his body. He thinks it’s going to wrap around his torso and strangle him. But then the vine straightens out, and with a sickening drop of his stomach, he realizes that it’s about to let go. He’s about to plummet.

“Down, down, down. Do you know what’s below?”

 _The end,_ Frank can’t say. His heart is beating out of his chest. _My end._

“Better hold on.” Instantaneously with the words, the vine goes slack, and Frank scrambles to grab it like a rope before he falls to his demise. Under his hands, the vine is almost cool to the touch. It’s almost scaly. He’d expected thorns to dig into his skin.

Panting, he looks up as he dangles. Two black eyes meet his, dark but gleaming like onyx. In total contrast, he also distinguishes two bloody sickles, curling off the end of the vine like—

Not thorns, Frank realizes with a silent cry. _Fangs._

Not vines. _Snakes._

The shock of it, of hanging at the mercy of evil, hits Frank’s system all at once. He can’t help it. He lets go. 

And he drops like a stone.

With a jolt, he wakes up.

*

He experiences a different kind of freefall the next evening when his mom calls him into the kitchen using his full name. That is not good. That is never, ever good.

“Everything okay?” Frank asks as neutrally as he can. He doesn’t know what he’s done to piss her off this time, but he is not going to indict himself. Leaning against the sink, he purposely puts space between himself and her spot next to the microwave.

“I just received a letter,” she says, holding up an open envelope. It shakes in her hand. Her whole face is pinched like she just ate a lemon. 

From the distance, Frank can’t make out who it’s addressed to. “Is it for me?” 

“No.” The envelope crinkles as her grip tightens. “It’s from Rutgers.”

Oh, _fuck._ Frank’s breath catches in his chest as his own stupidity washes over him, and he grabs the edge of the sink for support. He’d just idly assumed that any communications would be sent to him where he could deal with them in secret. A big fucking mistake. He should’ve been checking the mailbox. He should’ve been doing _anything_ to prevent the rage on his mom’s face right now.

“Mom, I—”

“It details your father and I’s _refund_ for this semester’s tuition,” his mom shouts overtop of him. “Would you like to explain to me why we’re being _refunded_ for your _college education?”_

Forget the nightmares, this is the scariest moment of Frank’s life. Sweat prickles on the back of his neck as he panics. “I got a scholarship,” he lies through his teeth. That’s the only way he knows how to survive with his parents.

His mom’s eyes darken. “No, you didn’t.”

Though he tries to think, he doesn’t have another excuse. If he admits he dropped out, he might just land his ass on the street. She probably already knows, but he can’t confirm it. He can’t do this right now. Or _ever._

Without another word, he turns on his heel and runs for the front door.

“Don’t you dare!” his mom shrieks after him. “If you don’t come back here right now, Frank, I’ll—”

The door slams behind him, cutting her off. He can’t believe he just did that. She is never going to forgive him. But she’ll also never forgive him for dropping out. Or for fucking up her perfect Catholic world in the first place.

He feels triumphant for a mere moment before the nausea hits. It's already twilight, and he’s at the end of his driveway with nowhere to go. No overnight bag or food. No car keys. Just his phone and the clothes on his back. But God knows he can’t go back inside.

Taking out his phone, he calls Gerard before he can really decide why. “Hey. Where are you right now?”

*

Frank is red in the face and sweating by the time he shows up at Gerard’s door. His apartment is on the other side of town, past Saint Peter’s, and the last half of the walk made Frank curse every cigarette he’s ever smoked. 

The door swings open and Gerard’s concerned face appears. He’s in the same leather jacket but different jeans. “Frank. You sounded kind of freaked on the phone, is everything okay?” 

Frank shakes his head morosely. If Gerard’s already clued in, there’s no point in hiding it. “I’m sorry, I know we don’t know each other that well. I just really fucked up, and I couldn’t think of anyone else to call.” Now that he says it out loud, it sounds even more crazy — sure, he doesn’t have any friends in town since Pencey broke up, and he’s pretty sure that if he walked into the church right now, he’d burst into flames, but why did he show up at the apartment of a guy he practically just met?

“That’s okay. What happened?” Gerard leans against the door jamb, not a hint of judgment in his expression. Oh, that’s why. 

“My mom found out about something I’d been hiding,” Frank tells the wall next to Gerard’s head.

Gerard lifts an eyebrow. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s a lot.” It feels like it, at least. It weighs heavy on Frank’s shoulders. A memory surfaces of learning in Catholic school about how sinners get dragged down to Hell, and thinks that this must be that pull.

But then there’s another pull, tugging him forward towards Gerard instead. It’s a force he definitely didn’t learn about in Catholic school.

“I can handle a lot,” Gerard says. “But we don’t have to.”

The silence drags out as Frank shifts awkwardly on his feet. He might break down if he tries to get into specifics right now. “Were you going somewhere?” he asks finally.

“No, I’m in for the night,” says Gerard. Frank eyes his jacket, but he doesn’t seem to catch on. “Are you. . .” He pauses, and his voice turns soft. “Oh, you don’t have anywhere to stay, do you?”

Frank swallows the lump in his throat. “No.”

Gerard steps to the side and opens his door all the way. “Come on in.”

In the back of his mind, Frank had been working up the nerve to ask to stay the night, or at least ask if Gerard knew of anywhere he could, but part of him didn’t actually think he would get there. “Are you sure?”

Gerard half-smiles. “As long as you don’t mind sleeping on the couch.”

“I don’t have a toothbrush,” Frank accidentally says. 

The skin around Gerard’s eyes crinkles as he laughs, and it does something hot and uncomfortable to Frank’s insides. “No worries. I keep an extra.”

*

Gerard rummages through his cupboards to offer him something to eat, but Frank turns him down on account of his stomach still being twisted into a knot. But Gerard doesn’t ask questions. He just makes up the couch and shows Frank where the bathroom is, then heads to bed and gives him some space. 

After switching off the lights, Frank falls back onto the couch. He closes his eyes, and he tries not to think of anything at all. 

The nightmare starts with the falling. Frank doesn’t even get the chance to let go. He just drops.

As wind rushes past him and his stomach bottoms out, he curls in on himself, tucking his knees against his chest like that might absorb some of the impact. Part of him knows there is no hope, that hitting bottom will be the end of him no matter how much he’s compacted, since it feels like he is plummeting from one end of the universe to the next. Like he’s falling forever. Like the falling starts over every minute, always fresh terror, never ending.

He still can’t see the bottom of the dark room, or pit, or chasm. Maybe he should stop looking. Squeezing his eyes shut, he braces himself.

Suddenly, a force yanks him upward. Gravity shifts around him as wind starts to whistle in the opposite way, and Frank realizes he’s rising. Fear paralyzes him as he imagines the snake pulling him back up only to drop him again and again as endless torture.

Except when Frank finally gets his eyes open, he sees bright white. A human hand is holding him. Beyond that, Frank can hardly make out anything against the light besides what look like soft, perfect feathers.

He awakes on Gerard’s couch, gasping and alone.

*

“Was everything alright last night?” Gerard asks in the morning, filling up a mug from the coffee pot on the counter. “I thought I heard some bumping around, but it might’ve been the wind.”

Frank takes a sip of coffee to hide his face and accidentally burns his tongue. “What? No, everything was fine,” he manages, trying to discreetly suck in air between his teeth. Gerard doesn’t need to hear about his recurring nightmares. Especially since every occurrence seems to happen right after seeing, well, Gerard. God, Frank already knows he’s got internalized shit going on, he doesn’t need his subconscious _reminding_ him every night.

Realizing he’s caused an awkward silence, Frank forces out, “I mean, it must’ve just been the wind. Thank you for letting me stay the night.”

“It’s no problem.” Gerard shrugs nonchalantly, and Frank’s eyes follow the movement of his broad shoulders. And maybe the caffeine has suddenly hit his brain, because he realizes Gerard is still in the damn leather jacket. And flannel pajama pants. It’s the most ridiculous fashion statement Frank has ever seen. Not that Frank has that much room to talk, since he’s still in his clothes from yesterday.

“Do you ever take that thing off, dude?” he blurts out before he can decide if it’s rude or not. Gerard’s eyebrows shoot up, but not necessarily in an angry way.

“My jacket?” he asks, voice a little deeper from having just swallowed. “I get cold easily. So what?”

Frank fights to keep a smile off his face. It’s a little endearing, is all. “Just, like, maybe it’s time to invest in a hoodie.”

“No, a hoodie’s not sturdy enough. I need—” Cutting himself off, Gerard averts his gaze. “Never mind. Are you ready to go?”

“We’re going somewhere?” As soon as the words are out of Frank’s mouth, it dawns on him. It’s Sunday morning. “Shit. No, man, I can’t go to Mass. My parents will see me.” The immaturity of it all sinks in as he listens to himself. He sounds like some stupid runaway kid, not like an adult with any aspect of his life together.

Gerard’s mouth pinches. “You can’t just skip Mass.”

An uncomfortable air settles between them. Gerard doesn’t get it. Even if Frank’s parents miraculously weren’t there, he still doesn’t think he could go. No way could he sit next to Gerard and feel anything close to pious. And he definitely couldn’t receive Communion. If Gerard wants him out of his apartment, he should just say so.

“At least come to Confession,” Gerard says, his tone gentler. “It might help you figure things out. And if you show up late, you won’t run into them.”

The look on Frank’s face must not be promising, because Gerard pulls a ring of keys out of his jacket pocket and drops them onto the counter. “I’m going to go put on pants, and then I’m leaving. If you decide to go anywhere, lock up and leave them under the mat.”

He turns and heads for his bedroom, the one place in the apartment Frank hasn’t seen. Frank tears his eyes away from Gerard’s retreating form and looks at the keys instead. No one has really given him the choice of going to church before. He was either pressured to go or pressured to not.

Sans pajama pants, Gerard comes out of his bedroom and heads for the door. Before he can step through, Frank calls, “Gerard?”

Gerard halts and turns to look at him. “Yeah?”

Frank swallows and tries to unstick the words from his tongue. “I think I’ll go.”

“Good.” Even from far away, Gerard’s eyes gleam bright.

*

Dragging himself through the streets of Belleville in the clothes he slept in is something of a walk of shame. He’s glad that Saint Peter’s is nearly empty. He is so far from his Sunday best.

Gerard is nowhere to be found, and luckily neither are his parents. Someone is already in the confession booth, so he waits for the person to come out, hands clasped behind his back. It feels better than he thought it would to be here of his own accord. A cement block still weighed him down the second he walked in, but it’s held in his arms, not on his shoulders.

A teenage girl comes out of the booth and Frank takes her place. He kneels and looks up at the screen. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession.”

“Tell me your sins, my son,” comes Father Montgomery’s level voice.

“They found out.” Frank realizes that the Father probably doesn’t recognize him and his specific confession from last week, so he clarifies, “My parents found out that I dropped out of college. You advised me to tell them, but I didn’t.”

The Father considers for a beat. “If I recall correctly, I did not advise you to do anything. I merely suggested who should guide you.”

“My public,” Frank fills in, the quote coming back to him. God, angels, and saints. Right. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

Father Montgomery chuckles quietly. “The Lord ensures we hold onto what we will need. Have you and your parents settled this situation?”

“Uh, no,” Frank says, sounding guilty even to his own ears. “We haven’t discussed it at all. I sort of ran out on them.”

“I assume you will be going back.”

As he shifts in discomfort, Frank’s knees crack against the wooden floor. “I guess I have to.” 

“You do not have to do anything, my son, but I’m sure the Lord has already told you what is right. Have you anything else to confess?”

“I don’t know if this is much of a sin.” Frank pauses, and when the Father doesn’t discourage him, continues, “I’ve been having terrible nightmares. There are snakes, and they make me fall to my death. I’m normally not rattled by dreams, but they’re so vivid.”

“Snakes, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Creatures of evil and temptation. You must not give into them.”

It’s not like he has a ton of control while dreaming of plummeting to his demise, but Frank doesn’t mention that. “I’ll try not to, Father.”

Father Montgomery hums lowly. “No penance will be needed today. It seems the Lord has already reached you.”

“Thank you, Father.” Bracing his hands on the floor, Frank begins to stand up, but the Father stops him.

“Remember, my child,” he says, “even the Prodigal Son was welcomed home.”

It’s nice to have one vote of faith.

*

The church’s wooden double doors are closed, Mass having ended over an hour ago. Frank pushes them open and stumbles into the sunlight to see Gerard on the steps. He’s leaning casually against the railing with his head tilted back. The sight prompts a whole barrage of impure thoughts in Frank’s head. 

When Gerard’s gaze lands on Frank, he smiles. “There you are,” he says, the warmth in his voice making Frank’s chest tight. “Glad you came?”

“Yeah. I needed it,” Frank says, and finds it’s the truth. He digs in the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out Gerard’s key ring, handing it over.

“Thanks.” Gerard takes the keys, squinting against the sun as Frank moves down the steps and stands in front of him. “How did it go in there?”

“The Father thinks I should go home.”

“He said that?”

“More or less.”

“Do you think you’re ready for that?”

Frank lets out a deep breath, but it does nothing to calm him. “I don’t know. Do you have your pack? Can I bum a smoke?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, and digs in his jacket pocket. He pulls out a lighter and two cigarettes between his fingers. “Where are we going?” he asks, since they both know better than to light up in the shadow of the church. 

Frank thinks for a moment before it comes to him. Thankfully, it’ll be a short walk. “Come on, I’ll show you my old hiding spot.”

*

They sit on the curb on the far side of the empty Queen of Peace parking lot, kicking their feet in the gravel. The tree overhead shades them. Frank closes his eyes while he takes his first drag, and some of the tension in his shoulders evaporates.

“You went to school here?” Gerard asks, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth.

“Yeah.” Frank eyes the library and the cafeteria he was never brave enough to go into. “They made us fear Hell by putting us through it.”

Gerard lets out a little snort of laughter, nudging him, and the touch zings right up Frank’s spine. “You must have been a real delinquent, though. I mean, if you had a designated smoking spot.”

“God, no.” Ashing into the gravel, Frank shakes his head. “I overpaid for cigarettes and played guitar, but that was it. I didn’t have any friends, so no parties or anything. I spent most of my time hiding in the library or wandering the halls.” He pauses, tilts his head. “Also, in retrospect, how fucking dumb was it to smoke out by a bunch of cars?”

“Good thing it’s a Sunday.” Gerard cracks a grin.

“They shoved me in a locker once,” Frank says for no particular reason. Being here is just making the memories resurface. That one, at least, is a little funny to look back on. 

Gerard raises his eyebrows. “You fit?”

“It was snug,” Frank says, just for the sake of his dignity. When Gerard only hums in response, he asks, “What were you like in high school?”

Gerard stares at the ground for a long moment. Frank wonders if he’s crossed some sort of line or something, and how that’s possible when he literally slept on the dude’s couch last night, but Gerard finally says, “Do you remember that long-term relationship I told you about? I was in that. That was my life.”

Wow. “Even back then?”

“Even back then,” Gerard confirms with a grim smile. “And I went to parties and stuff because of that relationship, but I shouldn’t have. It was all a mistake.”

The weight of his voice sounds heavier than normal high school regrets. Frank looks over, trying to read him. His hazel eyes are dull, at least compared to their usual sheen, and his hair’s fallen into his face. “I’m sorry,” Frank says, even though he’s not entirely sure what’s going on.

“It’s fine. We don’t want to talk about me.” At the end of his cigarette, Gerard stubs it out in the gravel. Some poor kid might get blamed for that tomorrow. “Are you going to go home?”

Since leaving Saint Peter’s, the question has been swirling in the back of Frank’s mind, but he still doesn’t have an answer. Gerard’s deflection is obvious, though, and Frank isn’t going to push him. Instead, he tries to lighten the mood. “You really want me out, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.” Gerard’s frown deepens, apparently taking the joke the wrong way. Frank wants to smack himself. God, where is his tact? “You just deserve better. You shouldn’t have to feel estranged from your own family.”

“A little late for that,” Frank mutters before he can stop himself.

Gerard sighs. “Yeah, I get it.” He pauses, folding his hands in his lap while Frank ekes out the last puff of his cigarette. “I have a brother, but I haven’t seen him in years. We can’t see each other. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do just to speak to him again.”

“What happened between you?”

“It’s a lot,” Gerard says, in the exact same voice Frank did last night. Frank, though, isn’t sure if he can handle a lot. At least not right now. “My point is, I’m not trying to push you out of my apartment. But it might be worth it to go be the bigger man and talk to them while you still can.”

“Yeah.” Looking down at their feet, Frank pokes the toe of his Chucks against the side of Gerard’s boots. “Yeah, I still want them to forgive me.”

“Then give them the chance.”

That logic does check out. “You give good advice. As good as the Father.”

Gerard grins at him sideways, and it’s almost hard to look at. It’s like he’s so beautiful he’s glowing. “It all comes from the same place.”

*

His house’s front door is unlocked, but once Frank twists the knob all the way, he hesitates pushing it open. He has no idea where his parents are. There’s this terrifying image in his head of them both lurking right in the front hallway, ready to tear into him as soon as he dares step foot over the threshold. 

Mustering his courage, he slowly swings the door open. They are not in front of him waiting to strike, nor are they in the living room. He makes it one, two, three, four paces down the hallway before he hits a squeaky floorboard. At the noise, his mom steps out of the kitchen, apron on and knife in hand.

“Frankie,” she says, her voice cool and detached. Some distant part of Frank breaks. The rational part of him knew that she wouldn’t act relieved to see him, but he couldn’t help but hope. “Where did you go last night?”

“I stayed at a friend’s house,” Frank says shakily. Then, in an effort to earn brownie points, he clarifies, “A friend from church.”

It has the opposite effect. Her lip curls in disgust. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Why not?”

“If they were really a friend from church, they’d have known better than to take you in. No follower of God should want to house a liar like you.”

“What—”

 _“Including_ me,” she interjects.

Frank’s stomach lurches. “What does that mean?”

Tilting her chin up, she staunchly says, “It means you’re not welcome here until you fix the mess you’ve created.”

 _“Mom.”_ Frank puts a hand against the wall, steadying himself. “You haven’t even given me a chance to explain, you can’t just—”

“You dropped out behind our backs!” she shouts. “You came home and lived under our roof and didn’t even have the decency to tell us the _truth,_ Frank! If you wanted a chance to explain, you should have done it _before_ you left school!”

“Maybe I didn’t because I knew you would react like this!” Frank yells back. He’d wanted to stay calm and handle this maturely, but it’s _impossible_ around his mom. She gets under his skin and digs at all the places that burn like no one else.

“You can’t blame a mother for being upset when her child throws away his _future._ And then you had the audacity to lie to my face when the proof was right there in my hands? I thought your father and I raised you to have some _respect.”_ She spits the last word, venom through her teeth.

“What else was I supposed to do? I knew you’d hate me!”

“Then you should’ve known better.” The fact that she doesn’t deny it stings deep and painful.

“I had to,” Frank says wildly. He’s trying to loop around, to get out what he came here to say. “I want — no, I _need_ to play music, and I can’t do that with college in the way. I was wasting my time. And your money.”

She bares her teeth, and the knife in her hand suddenly looks a hundred times more threatening. “Your band is over.”

Frank’s stomach twists the same way it does every time someone mentions Pencey. He wants to curse, but he holds his tongue. “Quit reminding me.”

“I suggest you re-enroll at Rutgers if you want a place to stay.” She turns her back, completely cold again. Frank’s heart splinters into sharp little pieces. He likes to pretend that he doesn’t care, that her opinion doesn’t matter, but she’s his _mom._ “We aren’t housing freeloaders.”

“You can’t force me to leave,” he says, embarrassingly petulant. She ignores him and goes back to chopping greens. In an effort to prove his point, Frank stomps off to his room, slamming the door behind himself. He doesn’t want to be here. But that should be his own decision.

He paces around the perimeter of his bed like a caged tiger. His closet is still full of stuff he lugged home from his dorm and hasn’t unpacked, and he has to restrain himself from going in there and kicking everything to shit. Even his poster of Sally looks disappointed in him.

He collapses on the bland, navy sheets his mom had put on the bed after he’d moved out. It’s like she tried to erase his personality from the house once he left. Cover up the fact that there had ever been a jack-o-lantern duvet.

Glaring at the ceiling and letting his eyes unfocus, he doesn’t put together where the chirping noise is coming from until it’s followed by a violent buzz in his back pocket. He rolls onto his side and extracts his phone. Gerard is calling him.

“Hey,” Gerard says, and the sound of his voice makes some of Frank’s anger fade. “Everything okay? I figured this was one of those ‘if you don’t hear from me in an hour I’m dead’ type-deals.”

It’s amazing that Frank still manages to smile. He hadn’t even thought to text Gerard. He has trouble remembering, sometimes, that other people might care about him. “Well, I’m not dead.”

“It sounds like there’s going to be a stipulation on that.”

“Yeah, kind of,” Frank says, and his breath stutters in his chest as he thinks over his next words. “I think I just got kicked out.”

The line crackles as Gerard exhales. “Shit, really?”

“I’m holed up in my room. In denial, I guess.”

“I’m so sorry,” Gerard says genuinely. “I shouldn’t have pushed you into going back.”

“You didn’t push me into anything.” Frank puts feeling into it, doesn’t let Gerard blame himself. “I think I had to try. Even if it went. . .pretty fucking badly.”

“It was brave of you.”

Frank rolls his eyes a little. “Yeah, so brave I ended up hiding in my childhood bedroom.”

“What’s it like in there?” Gerard actually sounds curious, but it might just be a ploy to take Frank’s mind off of things. Whatever, he’ll take it.

“Bland. Boring. Too easy to look at,” Frank says immediately. Then Gerard’s apartment pops into his mind’s eye. “I mean, not like your place. Your apartment is like, minimalistic. That’s a thing.”

“No, it’s okay. I know my place could use some sprucing up.”

“I like the high ceilings,” Frank says in an effort to sound like less of a jerk.

“Me too. They remind me of church.” Yeah, that’s exactly it. Frank just hadn’t put the thought into words yet. The whole place is kind of like a sanctuary, its simplicity lending itself to calmness instead of boredom.

“Listen,” Gerard says, interrupting his thoughts. “You should come back over.”

“What?” Frank’s eyes widen automatically. “Gerard, thank you, but I really can’t make you—”

“Frank, I’m offering.”

No way is he this lucky. “Isn’t it annoying to have someone else in your space?”

“Don’t worry about imposing. I’ve got the room and I like the company. I’m actually more used to having someone around, being alone is more strange.”

Some innate part of Frank trusts Gerard, even though he can’t explain it, and recognizes that by now, Gerard has seen more sides of him than any other friend. He knows what he’s getting into. That’s the part of him speaking when he goes, “Okay, yes. I’ll pack some stuff.”

“I’ll be here,” Gerard says, thankfully with no audible regret. “See you soon.”

Frank says goodbye and hangs up, smiling slightly to himself. He doesn’t really know how Gerard just so happened to walk into his life, but he’s grateful for it. Getting up, he gathers some clothes and toiletries into a bag. 

At the last second, he grabs his guitar, too. It might not be cooperating with him, but he can’t leave it behind.

*

“Can I get you anything?” Gerard asks as Frank drops his bag next to the couch. He still has his guitar strapped to his back, and he darts his gaze around for a moment before deciding to tuck the case in the corner of the room, past the TV. 

What Frank really wants is a beer, or five, but he knows Gerard won’t have that. He opens his mouth to say that he’s fine, but Gerard goes, “Dude, wait. Is that your guitar?”

“Do you want me to move it?” Frank offers automatically. It is kind of an eyesore against the otherwise nondescript wall. 

“No, I’m glad you brought it. You should play it sometime while you’re here.”

Frank stares at the guitar so he doesn’t have to look at Gerard. His recent failure is probably written all over his face. “No point. I still don’t have a band.”

Gerard doesn’t answer that, but he does bring over a glass of water for Frank, which Frank now realizes he kind of needs even though he hadn’t asked. “You want to talk about what happened?”

Frank sits down. “With my old band?” He thought they’d talked about that already, back on the first night they’d met. 

“With your parents.”

“Oh.” Frank takes a sip of water, and it helps lessen the lump that’s formed in his throat. Old habits tell him to avoid the question; the less people know about him, the less they can disagree with. But Gerard lets the silence stretch, sitting down next to him, not offering him an easy out. Maybe he deserves to know, since it is his couch that Frank is currently a guest on. “Um, I dropped out of college. I didn’t tell them, and then my mom found out on her own. She. . .didn’t agree with my decision.”

“Why’d you drop out?” Frank looks over to see if Gerard’s expression is pinched in judgment, but he just looks kind of concerned, eyebrows knit together. At least he’s not launching directly into the you're-ruining-your-future speech.

“I felt like I lost everything when my band fell apart,” Frank begins cautiously, still sneaking glances at Gerard’s reactions. “It made me realize that school didn’t matter to me at all. And I’m pretty sure — well, a lot of shit went down, but I’m pretty sure part of the reason Pencey broke up is because I didn’t have the time to devote to it.” He shrugs half-assedly. “So I thought, maybe if I make more time for music, I could start something that actually works. Problem is, I lost all my friends so now I don’t have anyone to start something _with.”_

“Ever thought of going solo?”

“Hell no.” Frank almost laughs. “I can’t play shows by myself. I don’t want to.”

“Understandable. That would be a lot of pressure.” Despite sitting taller than him, Gerard somehow manages to look up at Frank through his eyelashes. Frank doesn’t think it’s intentional, but the effect forces him to suppress a shiver. “Is that all she was upset about?”

“Jesus, you sound like the Father,” Frank says, belatedly registering that it’s the second time he’s made the comparison today. Weird.

“Sorry.” Gerard flashes a quick smile in apology. “I shouldn’t do that. You probably just talked through this with him.”

“I actually told Father Montgomery last week.” 

Gerard tilts his head. “You trust him, don’t you?”

“Yeah?” Frank says for lack of a better answer. “I mean, he has to keep everything I say a secret.”

“Knowing someone will keep your secret doesn’t always make it easier to tell.” Gerard is looking at him like he can see right through him, and it makes Frank’s insides curdle like spoiled milk. Whatever Gerard thinks he’s hiding, he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to hear a word of it out loud.

Abruptly, Frank wonders what Gerard confessed to this morning, and then he kind of wants to shake the Father down to find out.

“You still with me?” Gerard’s fingers wiggle in front of Frank’s face, making Frank’s eyes snap back into focus. He feels the tips of his ears burn for no good reason. “I was thinking about ordering takeout. Do you like Chinese?”

Frank manages to nod.

*

The nightmare rewinds and throws Frank straight into the deep end, no time to catch his breath before he is plummeting to his doom. Blood pounds in his ears. The pressure in his head is unbearable. His body might give out before he even reaches the bottom of this never-ending pit.

Before he can completely resign to his death, the space around him splits open with white light, and Frank recognizes the abrupt change in gravity. He’s being saved again. Or at least, he’s being pulled upwards.

He tightens his grip on the hand he dangles from, squinting against the light and trying to figure out what’s happening. The same feathers come into view. He can’t put together more than half a thought because he’s still thrumming with adrenaline and terror.

As they rise, the light grows more and more blinding. It sears Frank’s eyes, and his head throbs harder, unforgiving. Once spots start to dance in his vision, he has to tear his gaze away.

He looks down towards where he’d been falling instead. It’s dark, easier on his eyes, but the brightness from above has illuminated a bottom he could never make out before. There is an end to the plummet. A ground to die unto.

And it is covered in human hearts.

Frank squeezes his eyes shut immediately, but the image sticks in his mind. A million hearts, endless hearts, strewn over rock, bloody and entangled, making Frank taste metal in his mouth. They were still beating.

Those snakes were going to tear his heart out with their fangs and leave him to rot among the mass. He hears their voices in his head. _Isn’t this what you expected? Will you let us?_

_You’ll never let go of us._

The words echo in his mind even after he startles awake.

*

The next morning, Frank gets his head on straight and remembers to ask Gerard if he wants Frank to chip in for rent while he’s here. He doesn’t have any liquid funds, but he’s willing to get a job, even if it would somewhat counteract his plans to put all his time into a new band. Gerard just gives him a funny look over his coffee mug and tells him he never has any trouble with rent, and he shouldn’t worry about it. When Frank protests, Gerard’s eyes crinkle. “Write a song while you’re here and we’ll call it even.”

Frank doesn’t see how that’s a quid pro quo at all, but he knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he gives it his best. While Gerard is gone from the apartment, he noodles around on his guitar, only to be sorely disappointed as his fingers freeze and fail him. He feels the same as he did when he first started, abashed by his own lack of talent. A couple days in, he gives up on Pencey riffs and just starts to play whatever the hell comes to mind. His chords come out frustrated, grating, but at least they sound _new._ He jots down the occasional lyric. The words that he coughs up are so much sadder than what he used to write for Pencey, he doesn’t know what to do with them. The layer of anger is gone. What’s left exposes him down to the bone.

It’s a few nights until Gerard catches Frank in the act. Frank doesn’t know where he goes during the day and therefore never knows how long he’ll be gone, and has only avoided this interaction thus far through sheer luck. But Frank is so in the zone that he doesn’t stop strumming and singing under his breath until Gerard says, “Working on that song?” and Frank looks up to see him leaning against the door with a grocery bag in his arms. His hair is mussed up like it had been windy outside. The sight renders Frank’s brain useless for a moment.

“Trying to.” Frank lets his hands drop, and the music falls away like somebody clipped its wings.

The corners of Gerard’s mouth turn down. “Don’t stop on my account.” When Frank doesn’t move, Gerard peels himself away from the door and heads into the kitchen. He takes a frozen dinner out of the grocery bag and starts reading the directions on the back. “Fine,” he says, holding the box between his eyes and Frank. “Pretend I’m not here.”

“It’s not any good,” Frank objects.

“Who are you talking to?” says the box of vegetarian lasagna. “No one’s here.”

Another beat, and then Gerard lowers the lasagna. His eyes are wide and disarming. “Do you really think I’m going to judge you?”

Frank’s fingers twitch. If he knows one thing about Gerard, it’s that no, he won’t. It doesn’t seem like he ever will.

“Okay,” Frank agrees, and Gerard takes the hint to turn around and fiddle with the microwave. Frank clears his throat and spends a minute toying with his amp settings in a last ditch effort to stall. Then he swings back into the progression he’d been working on before, playing it a couple times until it sounds right. He doesn’t sing.

“I like that,” Gerard says, nearly making Frank jump. He’d let himself get sucked back into the zone.

Flushing a little, Frank puts down his guitar and goes to join Gerard in the kitchen, like putting some distance between himself and the instrument will lessen his embarrassment. Gerard turns his body towards him as he approaches, and that only makes it worse. The urge to rest his hands on Gerard’s hips invades his mind and refuses to leave. Frank stuffs his hands in his pockets in an effort to keep them to himself.

“I had an idea.” Gerard drums his fingers on the counter beside him. The microwave whirs at its own pace in the background. Frank adds in the quick tempo of his heart, and it’s like their own little orchestra. “It’s been a few days, and I can tell you’re still pretty stuck in your head.” He pushes a finger against his own forehead in demonstration. “And I bet that’s good for writing music, but you can’t stay there all the time. So I propose we spend the night putting my Star Wars boxed set to good use.”

Frank splutters. He doesn’t know where he thought this was going, but that certainly wasn’t it. “You like Star Wars?”

Gerard nods vigorously. “One of my favorite things I’ve discovered since being on my own.” Frank arches an eyebrow at the wording of that. “Are you down?”

That is a lot of movies, and a lot of time in even closer proximity than usual to Gerard. But if he stays up and doesn’t sleep, he can’t have nightmares. Being distracted for a bit does sound enjoyable. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Gerard is grinning back, and, well, that’s as good as any answer.

They tear through first the lasagna and then popcorn on the couch, Gerard getting up every once in a while to quickly swap the DVD discs and then flop back down next to Frank. Frank hasn’t ever marathoned these before, isn’t trained in the art, and in result his eyelids start to droop halfway through _Revenge of the Sith._ Then Gerard leans down and does his Darth Vader voice low and warm in Frank’s ear, and Frank wakes right back up.

Things start to get hazy again somewhere between Episode IV and V. Frank has given into the couch’s black hole pull and gone boneless against the cushions, but distantly, he can still feel his skin sparking where his and Gerard’s shoulders have fallen against each other. If Frank was in any other state, he would pull away, but the warmth coming off of Gerard is heady like wine. 

“Shit, Frank, you’re falling asleep.” The words flutter against the side of Frank’s face, because Gerard has turned his head to look at him. Frank could turn his head, too, and there would barely be any space between them. But he can hardly keep his eyes open. “Should we call it quits?”

“We’ve still got one left.” Frank tries to sound indignant, but it comes out slurred with exhaustion. “I want to make it. I want to.” Sometime between when Gerard had popped in the first DVD and now, it became imperative to Frank that they complete this. 

“Okay.” Gerard’s mouth pinches to the side, which Frank knows because he’s watching it now. “Here, I know what’ll help. Get up.”

“What are we doing?” Frank asks as they both stumble to their feet, leaning on one another. They must look like a couple of drunks, not that there’s anyone around to observe. But he feels inexplicably giddy in the same way.

“Getting you some fresh air. Getting your blood pumping.” Gerard’s smile is totally innocent, but Frank’s pulse pounds in his ears nonetheless. “The roof is only a couple floors up.”

“The roof?”

They stagger their way out of the apartment and up the flights of stairs. Gerard wraps his arm around Frank’s shoulders and holds him close. Frank is pretty sure he could handle the steps on his own, but he’s far gone enough to admit that it’s nice to be able to turn his face and laugh against Gerard’s neck as they ascend. The collar of his leather jacket rubs cool and solid against his chin.

When they finally burst out onto the roof, a flat plane with a heating unit on one side and a short white wall marking the perimeter, they stop dead. Because out past the wall, past the surrounding buildings of Belleville, the sun has started to rise. Its pink fingers stretch over the horizon like a hand Frank wants to hold.

Abruptly, a memory strikes him, one of the few pleasant ones from his classes at Queen of Peace. In English Literature one day, maybe sophomore year, they’d read a rare poem that wasn’t about direct devotion, and Frank had loved it for that reason alone. He can’t conjure the title, but it was about the spirit, and morning, and laundry, maybe.

He racks his mind for a line. He has no idea why this feels so important now, while he clings to Gerard in front of the sky, but he doesn’t try to stop the words as they slip out. “Outside the open window, the morning air is all awash with angels.”

“You should write that into a song,” Gerard murmurs back.

“No, that’s not mine.” Though Frank can’t remember whose it is.

“The idea, then.” The arm around Frank’s shoulder slides down to the small of his back. He turns to look at Gerard, and his eyes are half-lidded, which could be from tiredness. Or from something else. The possibility of _something else_ makes Frank’s stomach cramp, but not entirely unpleasantly. “Angels everywhere. Do you believe in that?”

“It’s just a poem.” Frank is having trouble keeping his gaze locked with Gerard’s. It keeps wandering down to his lips.

Gerard lifts a hand and brushes his thumb over Frank’s cheekbone. Frank’s breath leaves him, and he stands there, paralyzed. “That’s not what I asked.”

The sun has started to follow its rosy imprint over the skyline, which Frank can tell because one side of Gerard’s face illuminates in faint gold, like he is standing next to stained glass. His eyes are so lucid they could be their own stars.

Like a puppet master is pulling his strings, Frank feels himself lean in. Gerard’s breath fans over his face. He’s just so magnetic, and his hand is still feather-light on Frank’s face, anchoring him. 

“Frank,” Gerard says, voice barely more than a whisper. They’re so close. He wants Gerard to do it for him, to close the gap, like that could leave Frank with plausible deniability. “I want to tell you something that—”

 _Don’t say anything,_ Frank thinks, delirious from exhaustion and an entire night next to Gerard. A loud noise roars like blood in his ears. _Just kiss me, kiss me, kiss me._

“Look, I—” 

Before Gerard can finish his thought, the roar turns _ear-splitting_ and makes Frank jump a foot in the air. The roof falls into sudden darkness. Frank jerks his head to see a low-flying plane casting a shadow over them; it must have just left Newark. Its engines boom as it gains altitude and gives them their daylight back.

When Frank’s gaze lands back on Gerard, his stomach drops in horror. What had he almost just done? A plane interrupting their moment just before Frank did the one thing he promised himself he’d _never_ do back home? If that isn’t a sign from God, Frank doesn’t know what is.

“Well, I’m definitely awake now,” Frank lies, trying to brush everything under the rug with a joking timbre. “We should go finish our marathon.”

Gerard stares at him for a gut-wrenchingly long moment. His hand is still hovering in the air like he isn’t sure where to put it anymore. Frank tries to keep his countenance neutral even as those bright eyes look right through him. “Sure,” Gerard says finally, drawing out the vowels. “If we’re done up here.”

Frank answers that by grabbing the handle to the door they had come through and all but flinging himself back down the stairs. He can feel the sun on his back for just a moment, but then the door swings shut and it disappears.

*

Despite it all, Frank doesn’t make it. As hard as he tries, he would need to have his eyes pried open to keep watching. The last thing he remembers are the Ewoks, and then the world goes dark.

When sight returns, it’s from the same bright, infallible light as before, but only the last inklings. He can sense it as a distant presence. Still, it’s enough to illuminate the hearts beneath his feet. He listens to them beat, a sickly _thump-thump._

A sharp, searing pain hits him suddenly in the chest. He clutches at his shirt as he doubles over, but the pressure only worsens. He brings his hand back. In the faint light, he can see it is covered in blood. His blood. 

He scrabbles to put pressure on the wound even as the agony increases tenfold, but it’s no use; the blood drips through his fingers and down his arm as easy as water. It’s impossible to even tell if the beating in his ears is his own pulse or the sick organs around him.

Though he’s half expecting it when the white light arrives, he still breathes out a strained sigh of relief. _Save me!_ he wants to shout. _Help me! They’re ripping my heart out!_

The familiar hand joins Frank’s on his injury and pushes down, making Frank grit his teeth. The brightness is so overwhelming, but he squints through it to see the same flawless, feathered wings engulf him like a hug.

 _Who are you?_ Frank tries to rasp. Predictably, nothing audible comes out.

“I can’t tell you,” comes the angel’s warm voice. He must be an angel, Frank knows deep in his gut that it’s the truth. “You have to find out for yourself. You have to look at me.”

But Frank can’t; he’s got his chin tucked against his chest, and he can’t look away from the blood saturating his shirt or the rows and rows of mutilated hearts beneath them. They pump hypnotically.

“You have to let go,” says the angel. “It has to be your choice. Look at me, and we can finally leave this place.”

 _I’ll still die,_ Frank thinks.

“You won’t.” One of the angel’s wings shifts behind Frank and brushes the back of his neck. It sends a jolt of heat through him. “You made this wound. You can heal it.”

_Why can’t you do it?_

“I can't help anyone anymore.” The angel’s voice wavers. “I’m sorry.”

Frank fights against gravity and fear, trying to lift his head up. He wishes the angel would just place a finger underneath his chin. He struggles, his chest still blood-slick and throbbing, and _click-click-click_ go his vertebrae as he forces his neck to extend. 

He is trembling from exertion by the time his gaze lands on the angel’s face. His breath leaves him in one quick gasp. 

It’s Gerard. Of course it’s Gerard. 

_Can we go now?_ Frank thinks, first things first. 

“No. I’m so sorry.” Gerard folds his hand around Frank’s on his chest and retracts them both, inciting a new slice of pain that makes him scream silently. There, in their stacked palms, is Frank’s beating heart. 

The heart falls away from them and into the wretched piles beneath. Frank watches it go with slack-jawed terror until it blends into the mass, indistinguishable. 

“It’s too late,” Gerard says miserably. 

_No,_ Frank panics. _I want to let go. Let me let go!_

“Frank!”

_What? Are you just going to let me die?_

“Frank, wake up!” Gerard’s voice is fuzzy around the edges, and it takes a minute for Frank to realize that dream Gerard, Gerard the angel, isn’t moving his mouth. This is reality calling. 

Coming to, Frank lurches and bangs his head against the underside of Gerard’s jaw. “Ow,” he hears Gerard mutter distantly. Straightening up and blinking, Frank’s eyes slide into focus and he watches the DVD logo float across the TV screen.

“Did I. . .?”

“You fell asleep on my shoulder a few hours ago,” Gerard says softly. “And then you started screaming.”

“Shit, sorry,” says Frank. His mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. Did Gerard really let him sleep on him for _hours?_ The thought makes Frank’s stomach squirm. “Had a bad dream.”

“It’s fine.” Gerard rubs the spot where Frank had bumped him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Frank shakes his head vehemently. “It’s just some recurring thing.”

“Okay.” Gerard sits up a bit, putting his elbow on the back of the couch so he’s fully facing Frank. Delicately, he tucks a curl of hair behind Frank’s ear. Frank surprises himself by not pulling away. “So. Earlier on the roof. I wanted to. . .”

That brings Frank crashing back down to earth. He yanks himself out of Gerard’s touch and curls inward on himself as his stomach roils. “No, Gerard, I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t do that with you. I’m already having guilt-induced nightmares because of how I feel about you, I don’t need—” He swallows, and his throat burns like acid. No, like snake venom. “I can’t _act_ on it. Not here.”

Gerard’s expression goes slack. “You’re having those nightmares because of me?”

“Yes,” Frank says, voice cracking embarrassingly. “Or — I don’t know. You’re _in_ them. You’re the angel who tries to save me from dying.”

“And.” Gerard suddenly sounds like his throat’s swollen up. “Do I do it? Or do you die?”

“I died in this last dream. I don’t die every time. But I’ve never been saved.”

“I’m so sorry,” Gerard says, an eerie echo of Frank’s nightmare.

“Don’t apologize.” Frank puts out a hand to make tangible space between them. Gerard shouldn’t beat himself up over anything, but Frank needs him to understand why he can’t do this. Even if he wants to. God, Frank _wants_ to. 

“You don’t understand. I’m not—” He makes a noise in his throat. “I don’t think your nightmares will go away, not with me around.”

“The guilt doesn’t leave when you do.”

Gerard stands up and rolls his shoulders back. “It’s not only the guilt. The thing I was trying to tell you, it’s more than what you think.”

Frank opens his mouth to argue, but the look on Gerard’s face shuts him up. The stripes of sun coming through the blinds fall on Gerard as he takes a deep breath and shrugs off his jacket. His shirt goes next, dropping to the floor without any fanfare. 

A burning blush creeps up Frank’s neck, and he averts his eyes. Gerard doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move in his peripheral for long enough that Frank lets his gaze skate back over, just to see what’s going on. At first, Frank doesn’t notice anything wrong, until his eyes land on Gerard’s shoulders. Or rather, what he’d always _assumed_ to be Gerard’s shoulders. Where broad skin and muscle should be, there are two ridges of crisp, white feathers. 

“Oh my God,” Frank whispers, aghast. “I’m still dreaming.” But as soon as he hears his voice aloud, he knows he’s not. 

Gerard lifts his arms up and away from his sides, and a pair of wings follow, pure as fresh snow. It is such a stark contrast to his dark clothes, ratty hair, and bruise-like eyebags. They’re as long as his — well, wingspan, Frank thinks dumbly — and sloped along the top, whereas a less definitive line of feathers comprises the lower layers. 

“What are you?” Frank asks, an edge of panic to his voice. 

“I’m a guardian angel.” The light streaking through the window dims abruptly, and Gerard grimaces. “Sorry, a fallen guardian angel. I’m supposed to specify.” He mutters the last part in the direction of the window. 

“What—” Frank gestures uselessly between himself and Gerard. His mind whirls, unable to put together a coherent sentence. “Why?”

“Why am I here with you?” Gerard infers correctly. He shrugs almost shyly, his wings moving with the gesture. “I don’t know. I like you.”

Hearing that, Frank has to tear his eyes away from Gerard. If he spends another second drinking in his gleaming wings or pale chest or soft stomach, he’s going to do something so sacrilegious it’s not even funny. 

It hits him all at once like a shot to the head that he’s sitting here on an angel’s couch, closer than he _ever_ should be to something holy. And there’s still a slim chance that he’s hallucinating.

“I should go,” he says hurriedly. This was better off as a nightmare.

“Frank!” Gerard calls after him.

“I just need a minute,” Frank says. “I need some air.”

Maybe Gerard says something in response, but Frank wouldn’t know. He’s already out the door.

*

The issue with running away from his problems, Frank realizes, is that he’s exhausted his options of places to run to. On the opposite side of town is his parents’ house, from which he was all but banished, and behind him, the apartment of an apparent _fallen angel._ Who may or may not have the hots for him. God, Frank’s feelings about Gerard were already complicated enough without the addition of _wings._

Frank walks down a sidestreet that will eventually connect with Belleville’s main drag, passing a barbershop and the remnants of an old tattoo parlor. It’s still early, the morning light draping over everything and making the town look softer than it is, so he feels safe enough out on his own.

The idea of Gerard as an angel, Frank can’t wrap his head around it. Not because angels seem too far-fetched to exist or anything; the Bible contains hundreds of things less plausible than guardian angels, and he humored all of them growing up. But because it’s _Gerard._ Gerard, who lets Frank decide if he wants to go to church. Gerard, who has never judged him for who he is or what he’s chosen. Who sits in the very last pew. Who doesn’t know how to cook. Who almost kissed him on the roof at daybreak.

Gerard, who looks at him like there’s still goodness inside of him worth looking at.

It doesn’t make sense. Frank has spent years trying to hide from God, but Gerard made him feel seen.

A fallen angel, and the way Gerard’s face had crumpled when he was reminded of the fact. Maybe that’s why. But Gerard isn’t malicious like Satan, like the snakes. Gerard is like the bright spot in dark places, or a break in the grey sky to see some stars through.

God, is it possible that Gerard is as fucked up as he is?

Like an epiphany, something tugs deep in Frank’s stomach, and he stops in his tracks. He’d been absently watching the sidewalk, not paying much attention to where he wandered, since he has no place to go. But he’s somehow back in front of Gerard’s apartment building. His feet have circled him around without his permission, like he’s a compass needle and Gerard’s place is due north.

On his way up the stairs, he tries to piece together some sort of apology or explanation, but every rehearsed line falls flat. There’s no succinct way to explain his fear of want and the bitter taste of not being good enough. Not unless he wants to sound like a headcase. 

He shuffles his feet in front of Gerard’s door for a long moment before he works up the courage to knock. Maybe Gerard will know what to say to smooth this over, and Frank can just follow his lead. Except there’s no answer. 

Frank knocks again and listens carefully for movement to discern if Gerard is inside and just ignoring him. He doesn’t catch anything. It’s technically possible that Gerard went to sleep after their long night, but it feels unlikely. Frank stayed up too, but he could never sleep in this condition. 

He doesn’t want to do this over the phone, where he could just hang up and chicken out again. He can think of one other place Gerard may be. 

*

Saint Peter’s cobblestone facade looms over Frank, dwarfing him. He gently pushes open the massive set of double doors. He doesn’t know who’s inside yet, and he isn’t looking to draw unnecessary attention.

He sweeps his gaze over the room and the door creaks shut behind him. It’s completely vacant, save for a jacket-clad figure sitting in the last pew on the left. Just where Frank thought he would be. 

Gerard has his hands folded on top of the second to last pew and his forehead pressed against his knuckles, eyes closed. Frank still doesn’t know how to start this conversation. He also doesn’t want to disturb Gerard during prayer, so he lingers in the aisle awkwardly, waiting.

Eventually, Gerard mumbles, “Amen,” and looks up, blinking like he’s come out of a trance. It’s a moment before he notices Frank. His eyes go wide.

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” Frank says hastily, trying and failing to not seem creepy. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have come.”

“No, you’re okay.” Gerard shifts a little in the pew and pats the spot next to him. Frank takes the invitation and sits down, looking everywhere but Gerard’s face. 

“I went by your apartment first,” Frank tells the floor. “When you didn’t answer the door, I thought you might be here.”

He looks up just in time to see one side of Gerard’s mouth quirk. “Guess I’m predictable.”

The irony of that makes Frank stifle a laugh in the empty church. “No, I wouldn’t say that.”

Gerard’s smile expands to use his whole mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. After a second, it drops. “Well, I just came to pray.”

“Right. You must have a direct line up there.”

Gerard shakes his head. “It’s more complicated than that. I still try, though.”

That’s more than Frank can say for himself. He’s struck with a sudden wish, and before he can decide if it’s a good idea or not, says, “Could you — I mean, would you pray for me?”

“For what?” Gerard’s forehead creases, and he pulls at his bottom lip with his teeth. It’s a tantalizing sight.

“Clarity,” Frank says. “Courage.”

“I think I can do that.” Gerard’s posture straightens as he inhales deeply. He bends forward again and clasps his hands. Once he’s settled, the only sound in the church is their staggered breathing.

With the lines of Gerard’s shoulders and back on display, it’s impossible for Frank to keep his eyes from wandering. If they weren’t alone, he’d have a lot more hangups about letting his gaze linger, but he’s so tired of having to hide his desire even from himself. The twisting feeling in his gut isn’t just guilt anymore. It never really was.

As Gerard prays, the back of his jacket sometimes rises and falls in a way that is totally separate of his breathing. His wings must be moving underneath his clothes. For some reason, the realization makes Frank flush high on his cheekbones. He wants to see Gerard pray without the constrictions. He wants to _see_ Gerard, period.

Gerard interrupts that blasphemous train of thought by turning his head so his knuckles on the pew press against his cheek. Some hair falls into his face and he swipes it away. “I can feel you staring at me. It’s making it hard to concentrate.”

“You’re just gorgeous,” Frank breathes out, shocking himself. It’s always been a fact, but not one he ever thought he’d be able to voice aloud.

Gerard sits up slightly, turning towards him. “Frank,” he whispers, miserably, like it’s costing him something.

“I know,” Frank says, leaning forward. He’s miserable with it too. 

He hooks his fingers behind Gerard’s jaw and reels him in, kissing him right there in the pew, right in front of God and the angels and the saints.

The kiss is chaste, just the soft slide of Gerard’s mouth on his. Gerard’s thumb rubs gentle circles onto the side of Frank’s neck. Shivers erupt under his every touch. They have a lot left to talk about, Frank knows that. But this is how he wants to start. This is how he wants to get there.

“Amen,” Gerard murmurs against his lips.

*

During the walk back to Gerard’s apartment, the adrenaline from the morning starts to wear off. Frank drags his feet as the fatigue hits. He barely makes it up the flights of stairs, but once they are inside, he heads straight for the couch.

“I don’t think so,” Gerard says under his breath, grabbing Frank’s arm and stopping him from falling face-first into the cushions.

“What?” Frank complains. “Do we have to watch more movies?”

Gerard tugs, walking them both clumsily towards his bedroom. “You don’t need to sleep on the couch anymore.” He drops his hand to intertwine with Frank’s, squeezing gently. “Unless you want to, I mean.”

“No,” Frank says, lazy sparks shooting up his arm. “Your bed sounds much comfier.”

Gerard smiles. “I think you’ll like it.” He barely has time to lift the covers up before Frank collapses onto the mattress, sighing. Through a hazy glaze, Frank watches as Gerard shucks off his jacket and lifts his shirt over his head. 

“How do you fit. . .” The question fades on Frank’s heavy tongue. Gerard seems to get it, though, because he turns around, letting Frank watch as he tucks his wings back together. They’re so large it seems impossible, but they fold neatly back together at his waistline, the same way Frank could cross his arms behind his back and bend his elbows to hook his fingers in his belt loops. “S’amazing,” Frank says drowsily.

Gerard spreads his wings back out and crawls onto the bed. “Feels good to stretch,” is the last thing Frank hears before drifting off.

*

The dream is just a quick flash. Infinitesimal.

Gerard holds him up above the pit, above the snakes, above the hearts. They look down at the grotesqueness together. Frank can hear how hard Gerard’s wings are beating, how much he’s panting.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep us up,” Gerard says. “And you’re still bleeding.”

Frank reaches for his chest to stanch the flow from his wound, but before his hand can get there, he wakes.

*

The first thing Frank feels is the soft brush of feathers against his cheek, accompanied by low breathing. He opens his eyes to find Gerard looking at him. He’s on his back but his head is turned to the side, dark hair is sticking up everywhere, and his half-lidded eyes glow so stunningly. His wings curl up and around his shoulders. He looks like he just woke up, too.

“Good morning,” he says, and the raspiness of his voice goes straight to Frank’s gut.

Frank straightens his legs, wiggles his toes. “Is it morning?”

“No.” Gerard smiles graciously. “Late afternoon, I think. Did you sleep well?”

Since he’s asking, that must mean Frank didn’t scream. Instead of answering, he rolls further onto his shoulder until he’s angled slightly over Gerard.

“You can kiss me,” Gerard whispers.

Frank closes his eyes and lets the invisible force pull them together until their lips meet. It’s so much better than any boy Frank kissed in a dark corner at college. It still has that zing of newness, of daring, and that’s the only emotion Frank lets himself pay attention to. Even if he stays acutely aware of the Bible lying on the nightstand next to Gerard.

Once Frank falls back, they lie in comfortable silence for a minute. Then Gerard looks at him sideways and says, “I bet you have some questions for me, huh?”

That’s the understatement of the century. He’d put them off earlier in the name of sleep, but Frank has _so_ many questions, he doesn’t even know where to start.

Maybe with the obvious. “Does this mean God is real?”

“You can still believe whatever you want,” Gerard says. “People have been coming up with ways to explain the existence of guardian angels forever, God or no God.”

Frank rolls his eyes a little. “So you’re not going to answer that, then.”

Gerard shrugs, body moving against the mattress. “I can’t. I don’t know. I know I came from a place I call Heaven, but I’ve spent my whole life down here. It’s not like I’ve met God. But I believe He’s who made me and who I served.”

“What do you mean, you’ve spent your whole life here? That’s not what—” Frank furrows his brows. On second thought, he should probably just disregard everything he learned about angels in Catholic school. “And served? Past tense?”

“Well, I mean, guardians aren’t any use sitting around on our asses in Heaven. We grow up alongside our charge, protecting them even though they never know we’re there.” Fuck, that alone spawns about a hundred new questions in Frank’s mind. Gerard’s voice loses its easy lilt as he continues, “And, yeah, past tense. That’s where the whole ‘fallen’ thing comes in.”

“Oh.” Frank’s nose scrunches up to match his eyebrows.

Gerard’s fingers close around Frank’s upper arm, pressing lightly. “You look like you’re going to have an aneurysm. Relax, I’ll explain.”

“Okay.” Fine. One thing at a time. “So that makes you. . .mortal? Even though you’re an angel?”

“I guess,” Gerard says, not very convincingly. “I’m sorry, I don’t have much of an answer for that either. I always thought, like, I would age for as long as my charge lived and then I would return to Heaven with him, but then. . .” He trails off and clears his throat. “I didn’t. Because I fell.” 

They’re getting dangerously close to the one question Frank doesn’t have the courage for yet, so he changes topics. “Where do you go during the day?”

Color comes back into Gerard’s lips as he stops pinching them together so hard. “Oh, out to volunteer. Soup kitchen, homeless shelter, wherever needs the help. Lately I’ve been at the community gardens.”

The image of Gerard tending to homegrown veggies in his leather jacket makes Frank grin. But oddly enough, it makes sense. “What, no job? Does God just pay for this apartment? Is that why you wouldn’t let me chip in for rent?”

Gerard adopts a strange, distant look on his face. “Actually, again, I’m not sure. I never really have to pay for things. I just asked if there were any apartments available, and the landlord handed me a key.”

Frank’s eyes bug out of his skull. Damn. He lets himself be jealous for a moment before it sinks in that he’s essentially doing the same thing, and then he feels guilty. He’s working on a band, though. He’s going to get back on his feet. 

When Frank doesn’t continue pestering him, Gerard goes, “Come on, I know you’ve got more. It’s okay.”

Frank lets out a deep breath. He’s only curious about one more thing, but it’s a sick, self-destructive kind of curiosity. But Gerard is offering, and his answers might be the closest thing to the truth that Frank will ever find.

“Did you fall because. . .” The words die on his tongue.

“What?” Gerard asks instead of volunteering to fill in the blank like Frank desperately wants him to.

Frank grits his teeth. “You know.” He gestures between them, at the closeness of their bodies and the causal hold Gerard still has on Frank’s arm.

“Because I’m gay?” Gerard asks softly. Frank nods. Fuck, he _still_ can’t say it. He crosses his fingers and toes, wishing, almost praying, that Gerard will say no. Because if an _angel_ can be gay without reproccusions, maybe Frank can be too.

What Gerard does say is, “That was a part of it.”

Frank’s hope deflates like someone popped it with a needle.

“I had a charge. We grew up together, here in Jersey. His name was Elijah.” Gerard’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He adjusts his wings, hiding them further behind his back before he continues. “Everything was great. My brother was nearby with his own charge, and Elijah had a good family. My job really wasn’t that hard.”

“What went wrong?”

Silence stretches between them for so long that Frank starts to wonder if Gerard heard him. He’s about to open his mouth and ask, when Gerard says, “I fell in love with him, and not in the holy way. That’s what went wrong.”

It all clicks together at once. The relationship Gerard had talked about. How it had consumed his life. “Oh,” Frank says, a little embarrassed by his own slowness.

“He couldn’t love me back, because he didn’t know I existed; even if I made myself visible, he never would have been interested. He was a child of God.” Gerard pauses, blinking rapidly. It doesn’t get rid of the mistiness in his eyes. “But I couldn’t help it. I wanted him so _much._ I had to be around him so often, there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it. I pretended like I was one of his friends, let myself play into the fantasy. We were at a house party one night, and I was going drink-for-drink with him. Like that would make us buddies, somehow, even though he had no idea I was there.”

Shaking his head against his pillow, Gerard squeezes his eyes shut for just a second, but Frank still catches a tear slip out. “He went off with some girl, and it broke my heart. It always did. I was so drunk and angry that I didn’t notice him get in a car. I didn’t stop him. He crashed head first into a tree and died while his _guardian angel_ was busy crying in some high schooler’s bathroom.”

“Gerard,” Frank begins, clueless as to how he should finish the sentiment. Nothing he could say right now could touch that level of hurt.

“It’s fine. I’m over it now.”

“It’s okay if you’re not.”

“I am.” Gerard swipes at his cheeks. “When I fell, it wasn’t literal, since I wasn’t up in Heaven to begin with, but I lost all the things that made me a guardian. The halo. The invisibility. I mean, guardians can be visible if we need to, but the job is usually easier if we aren’t. My wings stayed, but I can’t fly anymore. And I can still see other guardians, but I can’t talk to them. So I don’t do the protecting thing anymore.”

“You can’t talk to other guardians? But what about—”

“I haven’t seen my brother in years. If I speak to him, he’ll fall, too.”

Frank stares at the ceiling for a moment and tries to imagine what that’s like. Ostracized from his family because of feelings he couldn’t help — well, maybe that’s not so much of a leap. “I’m so sorry.”

“At least I know—” Gerard stops to clear the emotion from his throat. “I know he went to Heaven.”

“How?” It’s not that Frank doesn’t trust Gerard’s sense of character, he’s just never had an opportunity like this before. He can’t help but ask.

“Because everyone who has a guardian angel is destined for Heaven.” As soon as the sentence is out, Gerard freezes. His wide-blown eyes dim from their usual brightness.

“You said you can still see other guardians,” Frank recalls warily. “Do I have one?”

The silence that follows is deafening, like the aftermath of a nuclear detonation. Frank’s heart drops through the floor beneath them.

“I’m sorry,” Gerard says, but Frank can barely hear him over the blood roaring in his ears. 

He doesn’t have a guardian angel. He is not going to Heaven. He never was.

All this time, he kept himself under lock and key in his own body, and he was destined for Hell.

A broken, guttural noise escapes him as he curls in on himself helplessly. He knows Gerard had been opening up, and his thing hurts, too, but it’s too much hurt. It’s too _much._ Frank can’t _contain_ all of it.

Gerard rolls onto his side, pulls Frank against his bare chest, and wraps his wings around them both. Like that’ll somehow keep out the truth.

To Frank’s embarrassment, he starts to cry.

“I wish I’d _known,”_ he hacks out through sobs. “So I didn’t have to _do_ all this to myself.”

“I know,” Gerard says against his forehead. “It’s not fair. It’s not.” He plants a kiss there, so delicately Frank can hardly feel it.

Lord, he never thought an angel would be the only one to understand him. He cries and cries until there is nothing left in him.

*

He must drift off, because he finds himself dangling over the abyss with Gerard again. He can already feel his grip slipping.

 _What can I do?_ Frank thinks. He notices one of his hands clamped over the cavern in his chest, but blood is still spilling out. _How can I help?_

“You’re carrying too much,” Gerard gasps out. “And so am I.”

*

The night slides away and becomes morning. When Frank blinks his eyes open, Gerard is still next to him in bed.

“How are you feeling?” Gerard asks. Truth be told, Frank feels like shit; his throat is scratchy, his head aches dully, and he can’t seem to take a deep breath.

“Like my world’s just been turned inside out.” His voice comes out weak so he coughs.

“I get it.” Gerard sits up, and Frank realizes that he’s back in his shirt and jacket like he’s going somewhere. “You should take some time to process everything. I’m glad you woke up, because I didn’t want to leave without saying anything, but. . .”

But it’s Sunday, Frank realizes. He used to keep better track of time, back when he was at school, back when he had things to look forward to. “You’re going to Mass,” he says bitterly.

“I am.” Gerard’s tone does the apologizing for him. “I hate to leave you like this, but I’ll only be gone for a couple of hours. I really need to go. You know I do.”

“I’m not trying to stop you.” If Gerard is brave enough to show up and beg for forgiveness every week from a God who has already rejected him, good for him. But Frank isn’t. He’s out of naivety and blind hope.

Gerard pauses as he gets up to leave, looking cautiously at Frank like maybe he’s going to kiss him. Desire drums loud in Frank, but he turns his head, doesn’t let Gerard lean in. Maybe that way Gerard will be able to take Communion.

Once he’s gone, Frank helps himself to breakfast per Gerard’s request, then sits down on the couch with his guitar. He warms up quickly before shifting into loud, obnoxious power chords. He’s not trying to play anything good. He’s just trying to make _noise._ Loud enough to drown everything else out. He paces around, putting notes together, playing so hard that even through his calluses his fingers scream.

He thinks about Gerard, how he should have kissed him goodbye, and about his parents, so smug in their righteousness, and scribbles on the back of a receipt for takeout, _I've felt this bad for so long I'm scared I'm fine._

But that’s not anything. Not yet. And it’s not enough. The music is just draining him instead of keeping his walls up. He collapses back onto the sofa, the last chord he’d strummed ringing out pathetically as he folds over on himself and takes a long, shuddering breath. Tears prick his eyes; no one is here to see but himself and God, so he lets them fall, and they streak down his face hotly.

He needs to do something, anything, to lessen this pain. He can’t keep living like this.

A terrible idea hits him, and his stomach drops.

It’s not like he has anything to lose, anyway.

*

Frank arrives at Saint Peter’s just as people are beginning to leave, so he lingers out of sight until the steps clear. Once the stragglers are gone, he slips inside the church, walking over to the confession booth. It’s empty. Behind him, someone clears their throat.

“Are you looking to confess something, my child?” asks Father Montgomery. Frank can’t meet his eyes, so his gaze falls to his collar, which isn’t much better.

“Yes,” he forces out.

He’s half expecting the Father to turn him away on account of being too late, but he rubs his wiry beard with one hand and nods. Frank almost sighs in relief. He doesn’t know what he would have done if the Father had refused; he isn’t sure he could work up this courage again.

Kneeling in the booth, Frank waits for the Father to begin. Instead of the usual opener, though, he simply says, “Go ahead.”

Frank flattens his palms against the floor in an effort to steady himself. He’s wanted to say it for so long. He’s known it for even longer. And now that he’s here, protected by the holiest vow to secrecy, it feels like his tongue is swelling, leaving no room for the words in his mouth. For a moment he’s sure he is in a waking nightmare and has to touch his neck to make sure there is no snake strangling him.

Father Montgomery does nothing to encourage him. He hadn’t run this decision by anyone; it could be a complete mistake.

No, Gerard would support it. Gerard would want him to let go.

Frank whispers, “I’m gay.” 

Through the screen, he hears the Father shift. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. As terrifying as it is, Frank hopes he heard him; the last thing he wants to do is repeat himself.

“Has this confession taken a burden off your soul?” the Father asks evenly.

It’s so far from the reaction Frank had been anticipating that he accidentally goes, “What?”

“Your soul,” the Father says again. “Does it feel lighter?”

Now that the Father mentions it, Frank does feel different, sort of like something in his chest has. . .loosened. He isn’t sure that it’s his _soul,_ but it is nice.

“Yes?” says Frank, more dumbfounded than anything.

“That is good.” The Father clears his throat and says in a stronger voice, “My son, you know I cannot condone it. You may still repent and restore yourself in the eyes of God if you choose to give up this lifestyle, but other than that, I cannot help you.”

Frank’s heart sinks. He’d already known, but the wound is still fresh.

Part of him wants to ask what he would have to do to repent. The craving for an easier life, a life that God and his parents would like, is rooted so firmly in him. If he could just find somewhere _deeper_ to bury it all. Even without a guardian angel, maybe he could prove his predetermination was a mistake.

Then an image of Gerard flashes in his mind’s eye, and Frank knows he’s already failed.

“However,” the Father continues in a lower tone, “it is my belief that it is God’s will for each of us to love and be loved, whether it be by Him or someone else.”

 _Or._ Him _or_ someone else. It hits Frank with sudden clarity that any God worth his time would not make him choose. And that weight off his shoulders, it feels _good._

Frank gets off his knees, saying, “Thank you, Father.” He doesn’t need to wait around for penance. He has more to confess, but not here.

*

His dad is the first to see him. He looks over the back of the couch towards the front door and freezes. His mom asks, “What, honey?” and turns to look for herself, and then they’re both staring at him. He feels like bacteria under a microscope.

His mom’s gaze immediately hardens, but before she can say anything, his dad puts a hand on her arm. He considers Frank for a long moment. He looks tired. They both do, actually; dark circles ring their eyes and his mom’s hair is frizzy. The observation sends a pang of guilt through Frank. 

“You better have something good to say,” his dad finally remarks.

Frank steps fully into the room, his hands clasped behind his back. “Can I sit down?”

His dad nods, so Frank takes the chair adjacent to the couch and drags it directly across from them. He sits and doesn’t let his posture slump. He’s going to handle this like an adult this time.

“I know I messed up,” he says. “I should never have dropped out without talking to you first. I didn’t because I was afraid of how you would react, but that wasn’t fair. I should have given you the chance.” It comes out just like he’d rehearsed on the walk over here.

His dad makes a low noise in his throat. “But you don’t regret dropping out?”

Steeling himself, Frank says, “No.”

His mom’s face darkens and his dad’s wiry body stiffens, but relief _blooms_ in Frank’s chest. It’s out there. He said it.

“I can’t believe you, Frank.” His mom’s voice is full of quiet rage. “You’re just like your grandfather, jeopardizing your future just to try and become a musician.”

“Grandpa didn’t just _try,_ he _was_ a great musician,” Frank argues. “I think I can be, too.”

“You think?”

Frank swallows. It’s impossible to be sure of anything, especially right now, but he’ll tell her what she needs to hear. “No, I know. I’ve been writing new material. I just need a band behind it.”

“You still don’t have a band?” His dad buries his face in his hands. “Son, I want to support you, but you make it so difficult.”

“I—” The words process, and Frank stops and tilts his head. “You — what?”

His dad looks at his mom, and she narrows her eyes back at him like a warning. His dad says, “It’s not like I was born wanting to be a car salesman. I wanted to be a drummer like your grandfather, you know, but I had to give it up.”

“Because we had you,” his mom adds. His dad makes a sour face like he didn’t want that mentioned. Frank’s heart suddenly feels very heavy.

“The point is, I get that it’s in your blood. But we’re still your parents, and we can’t let you run around without any plans or prospects.”

Frank’s brain can’t compute what he’s hearing. His _dad_ had been a musician too? God, he really doesn’t know his parents. “What are you saying?”

“If you want to do this, then you need to do it,” his dad says firmly. “If you can’t make it happen, then you need to go back to Rutgers.”

“I can make it happen,” Frank splutters. Then his gaze slides over to his mom, who is sitting there with lips pressed together. “Mom? Is that okay?”

She looks at him fully, and Frank realizes that she’s tearing up. “I prayed for the Lord to guide you. I prayed for Him to put you on the right path, and this is where you ended up. I can’t fight His will.”

Another swell of guilt washes over Frank like a tidal wave. All his mother wants, he realizes, is for him to live a good life and get into Heaven. If he can’t have one, then he needs to do the other. Even if it’s not the life she would have chosen for him.

In that moment, it crosses his mind to come out to them. The words are still fresh on his tongue from Confession. But he knows that if he does, this glimmer of acceptance will disappear, and he will not be any more at peace. He expects to feel cowardly for that, but the itching sense of obligation doesn’t come. 

Maybe he’ll tell them another day, once they’ve healed past this. But for now, they aren’t his public; they’re his parents, who sometimes require a different kind of honesty than God, the angels, and the saints.

“Thank you,” he says instead. “Give me a few days. I won’t let you down again.”

*

As soon as Gerard lets Frank into his apartment, he asks, “Do you want to go to Beelzebub's tonight?”

Gerard arches an eyebrow at him. He’s got his jacket on, wings hidden away. “You seem like you’re in a better mood.”

“I’m still—” Frank waves a hand around, swallowing the lump in his throat that keeps appearing whenever he thinks too directly about not having a guardian. “Coming to terms with it all. But I’m trying to focus on the things that I actually can control.”

“That’s a good idea.” One of Gerard’s hands lands lightly on Frank’s hip, guiding him away from the front door. Frank doesn’t have to suppress an urge to flinch, and that feels like a victory. “Yes, I’d love to go out with you. What’s at Beelzebub’s?”

“The rest of my band, hopefully.”

“Oh, just like the night we met.”

“Yeah.” The memory makes Frank smile a little. “Still seems like my best bet, since no one responded to my flyer but you.”

Gerard’s answering grin is a quick flash of teeth. “Oops.”

Looking at him, Frank has his third sigh of relief of the day, but it is less of a divulgence and more of a, _Thank God I met you. Thank you for making me feel less alone. Even after everything, I think I’m starting to feel happiness again._

The easy expression melts off Gerard’s face. “What? You aren’t actually mad I used your flyer, are you?”

Reaching up, Frank wraps his arms around Gerard’s neck, kissing him squarely on the mouth.

“Oh.” Gerard’s hand digs into Frank’s waist. He kisses back like he means it. “I’ll take that as a no.”

*

So much has turned upside down in Frank’s life that he sort of expects Beelzebub's to be different, too, but of course it’s not. It’s the same old dingy joint it has been since high school. What _has_ changed is the emotion that wells up in him as he walks through the front door: no more wistful nostalgia. Now, he feels hope. And with Gerard pressed close against his back, an undeniable bit of excitement.

The bouncer by the door isn’t the same dude who cut up his ID the last time, but even if Frank did have another fake up his sleeve, tonight isn’t the night to take chances. He flashes his real license and gets an X drawn on both hands. Gerard follows him in without any trouble.

It’s more crowded than Frank expected for a Sunday night, and that might be because — he pauses, listening for a moment — the four-piece on stage actually sounds _good._ Punk with some reggae underneath it. They wander through the mass together, staying on the fringes of the pit; part of Frank wants to dive in, but that’s not what he’s here for. He’ll have plenty of chances to do that once he gets a band together.

He strikes out just about as many times as he did on his first attempt. Most people don’t want to yell small talk back and forth while Frank works up to the question, but going straight in with _Hey, you want to be in my band?_ seems to be equally repelling. At the edge of the crowd, he leans back against Gerard’s chest and sighs. Gerard dutifully wraps his arms around Frank’s middle and leans down to listen when he speaks.

“This is a bust,” Frank grumbles. “Should we just go?”

Gerard plants a kiss behind his ear, making Frank shiver all over. It’s distracting enough he forgets to look around and see if anyone noticed. “As tempting as it is to get you back to my apartment, I think we should stick it out a little longer.”

Frank tilts his head back so it is resting on Gerard’s shoulder. “Last time I was here I met an angel. I think that set the bar too high.”

So close together, Frank can feel the rumble of Gerard’s laugh like it’s his own. “That angel can’t even play an instrument. He’s no use.”

He’s dead wrong, but Frank can’t think of any response that won’t come out like some overzealous proclamation, so he just picks up one of Gerard’s hands where it’s loosely holding him and kisses the palm of it.

“You deserve to be up on that stage,” Gerard says. “You’ll find who you need. I promise.”

And just then, someone stumbles out of the pit and into Frank’s line of vision.

“Hey,” the guy says breathlessly, eyebrows creasing. He’s got a beard and looks like he’s sweated entirely through his red and black flannel. “Were you in Pencey Prep?”

Frank takes a step forward. Behind him, Gerard makes a happy noise that Frank feels lucky to have heard over the music. “Yeah, I was the frontman.”

“Dude.” The guy makes a hand gesture like his head’s exploding. “You guys were the best band in the scene, I was totally wrecked when I found out you broke up.”

Frank shrugs, a little uncomfortable. He doesn’t know what to say to that, because no matter how much their breakup hurt one of their listeners, it hurt no one more than Frank.

“My band just broke up, too,” the dude babbles on with the usual tactlessness of the wasted. “You were a total inspiration for us, so I guess that makes sense. Do you miss it, man? I miss playing shows so much. It’s just not the same out here.”

“Yeah, I do.” Slowly, a grin spreads across Frank’s face. “I’ve actually been trying to put together a new band.”

Again, the guy mimes a brain explosion. “Are you serious? Anyone who gets to play with you is the luckiest bastard on _earth.”_

Frank sticks out his hand. “I’m Frank.”

The dude grips his hand and shakes. “Rob,” he says, and his eyes go wide as he starts to catch on.

*

Frank leaves the dive bar with a new contact in his phone and his hand laced lazily with Gerard’s. The band is still playing, so there’s no one out to see them, but even if there was, it’s not like any rumors from this side of town would circulate back to his parents.

“I think a celebration is in order,” Gerard says cheerily, swinging their arms back and forth together. The streetlight above them flickers, but Frank pays it no mind. His dad’s car is just a few blocks down in the overflow parking lot.

Frank gives him a sly little look. “You want to celebrate me getting another guy’s number?”

“If you’re trying to make me jealous, I don’t do that anymore.” A pause, in which Gerard seems to realize that Frank is attempting to flirt. “I mean, I’m the one taking you home, aren’t I?”

“You are.” Almost unable to believe his own daring, Frank says, “And then what are you going to do with me?”

Gerard stops in his tracks. Frank takes another step before noticing that Gerard isn’t moving with him anymore, then halts and turns around to face him. Before Frank can ask what’s wrong, Gerard grabs him with both hands, tilts his face up, and kisses him, hard. Frank’s knees go weak pretty much instantly. He scrabbles for a hold on Gerard, fingers clenching as he grips his shoulders. Gerard bites his lip, and a groan slips out. Thank God they’re in the darkness so he can’t see Frank’s blush.

“More of that,” Gerard says a moment later as he pulls away. Frank can’t stop looking at his mouth. “For starters.”

“Starters?” Frank echoes dumbly, the finesse needed for real flirting completely gone.

“If you want.” Yeah, Frank wants. He always has. And now no one can tell him not to. No one can stop him.

There’s the crunch of gravel underfoot, and Frank is about to lean around and see who’s there when he hears a distinctive noise. A noise he has never heard outside of TV and movies. 

A gun cocks. Terror floods through him all at once.

Frank looks over Gerard’s shoulder to catch a man step out of the darkness. He’s taller than both of them and not wearing a face covering, so Frank can see the protruding, white scar extending across his entire left cheek. Like he’s so used to this he’s not even worried about getting caught anymore.

He points the gun between Gerard’s shoulderblades. 

Frank tries to say Gerard’s name, but it’s like he’s in one of his dreams again, and he can’t speak. 

“Down on the ground. I want your wallets and your keys,” says the guy, steady and powerful. Frank always thought a mugger would yell, but he doesn’t. Frank briefly thinks about screaming before he realizes that even if he could get his voice to work, he might get them killed. And no one inside would hear him. 

Fuck, _no._ Frank can lose his wallet, but he can’t lose his dad’s car. It might be a trivial thing to sweat over when a gun is inches away from them, but he’s already on such thin fucking ice, he can’t help it.

“I said get _down,”_ the mugger commands through the ringing in Frank’s ears. He moves the gun closer to Gerard and Frank goes limp immediately, no fight for the car left in him. But his hands are still on Gerard’s shoulders, and he can’t seem to send the message from his brain to his fingers to release his death grip. What is he supposed to do? Why isn’t Gerard _moving?_ He still can’t talk, and they’re both going to die, they are going to fucking _die,_ and Frank isn’t going to go to Heaven _or_ get to live his life the right way, and—

And it is because his hands are still attached to Gerard’s shoulders that Frank feels something start to stir underneath his jacket. Gerard’s eyes turn fucking _incandescent,_ light shining through the hazel so brightly that it almost blocks out his pupils. Frank’s jaw hits the fucking asphalt.

The mugger barks at them again, but it hardly registers with Frank because Gerard’s leather jacket is stretching, _splitting._ The seams attaching the back panel fall to pieces and out spring Gerard’s wings, as majestic as ever, and apparently strong enough to rip through two layers of clothing.

“What the _fuck?”_ cries the mugger, and for the first time, Frank can fucking agree with him. He swings the gun wildly across Gerard’s wingspan like he doesn’t know where to aim anymore. It makes Frank’s stomach lurch all over again.

Before he can lose his lunch, though, Gerard yanks him in, pulling them flush together. He wraps his arms around Frank’s middle tightly. Frank barely has time to secure his own hold around Gerard’s neck before they somehow lift off the ground, shooting up into the air. Frank sees the flap of Gerard’s wings but he absolutely can’t make sense of it. _Any_ of it, how they are suddenly higher than Beelzebub’s, so many feet away from the gun, _flying in the fucking air._

Back on the ground, a shot goes off, but it comes nowhere near them. When Frank looks back down, the mugger is gone. Even though he has no clue what is happening, he lets relief sweep over him.

“I thought—” Frank’s voice comes back all at once. He shouts to be heard over the wind. “I thought you couldn’t fly!”

“I can’t!” Gerard yells back, just as bewildered. “I mean, I couldn’t!”

Frank peers down again, and now their feet dangle much higher than the roof of the bar. Panic swells in Frank like a balloon. “Gerard, Gerard, you can stop going up!”

“What? Oh, shit, sorry!” They jerk as Gerard levels off, his wings flapping rhythmically to keep them in place in the sky. Most of the wind in Frank’s ears dies away. He makes himself focus on Gerard’s face instead of what’s below, and only then does he finally let out the breath he’d been holding. 

Gerard, with his pure white wings beating against the night sky, the few stars visible in Jersey blinking behind him, dark hair swaying back and forth, face so fucking _angelic_ it should have always been obvious, has never looked more in his element. And he is the best goddamn thing Frank has ever seen.

Gerard offers a meek smile. “I hope you’re not scared of heights.”

“Not as scared as I am of muggers,” Frank says shakily. “Just don’t drop me.”

“I won’t,” Gerard promises. He starts to move them again, and after a second Frank puts together that they are headed back towards the car.

“What, you can’t just flutter us all the way back to your apartment?” Frank tries to joke, but the shock of everything is starting to sink in more solidly and his tone falters.

“I don’t know how long this is going to last,” Gerard says, so softly that even pressed together, Frank has to lean in to hear. “It’s not supposed to be happening in the first place. I’m _fallen.”_

Above their target now, they begin to circle down. Frank can tell Gerard is taking it as slow as he can, but he still gets a little queasy.

Back on solid asphalt, Frank has to force himself to let go of Gerard, leaning against the car instead. Gerard’s expression is as tattered as his jacket. 

“Hey, you got us out of there,” Frank attempts to console him. “We’re okay.”

Biting his lip, Gerard moves his wings experimentally. He hovers a few inches off the ground before dropping back down. “I just don’t know how I did it. Only guardians can fly, so either that was a miracle, or. . .” He trails off. 

“Or you’re a guardian angel again?” Frank finishes. 

“Yes.” Gerard’s face is shuttered. It’s obvious how hard he is working to keep himself together. 

“You might have just saved my life.” A few separate thoughts start to intertwine. “And earlier tonight, right after you convinced me to stay, I found someone for my band. I was practically a stranger but you let me stay in your apartment for free. . .”

Gerard’s throat bobs. “That was nothing. I just wanted to help.”

“It wasn’t nothing. You were looking out for me.” Frank pushes off the car and takes a step towards Gerard. All the pieces are slotting together. If only they hadn’t been too lost in themselves to see it before. 

“I already _fell.”_ Gerard waves his hands incoherently. “That isn’t _possible.”_

“Neither was flying until a minute ago,” Frank points out. He doesn’t mean to inflate Gerard’s hopes, but his own anticipation is bubbling up so fast in his chest it’s spilling out of him. 

“You don’t understand.” Voice stripped raw, Gerard says, “Angels don’t get second chances.”

Frank reaches into the gap between them to find Gerard’s hands again. “The God I believe in has grace.”

Their fingers interlock between their bodies like a tether. Frank keeps Gerard here, and Gerard lifts Frank up, even if his feet don’t leave the parking lot. The moment they touch, a golden glow appears around Gerard’s head. Piece by piece, it materializes into a disc with radial lines of light inside, as delicate as shimmering thread.

“Your halo,” he says, awestruck, because what else could it possibly be? “Is this — this is how you used to look?”

A tiny smile fights its way onto Gerard’s face. “Sometimes. The wings are standard, but an angel’s halo only appears around their charge.”

“Interesting,” says Frank, making a pensive face even as his insides twist up and his heart does a loop-de-loop. “So that makes you. . .?”

“Yeah,” Gerard breathes. “I guess so.”

“Okay.” If Frank isn’t careful, he’s going to start fucking crying out of relief. “In that case, would my guardian angel like to take me home now?”

“Yes,” Gerard says, so fast it comes out choked. The light around his head illuminates the pink that rises to his cheeks. “Yes, I would.”

*

They stumble through the doorway together, clinging to each other like drowning men. Gerard kisses Frank’s cheeks, his neck, his nose, his jaw, whispering things like, “Lord Almighty,” and, “Thank God, thank God,” and for some reason, hearing that sends heat searing right down to the pit of Frank’s stomach. He’s still vibrating around the edges with residual adrenaline. It’s good to have someone to channel it towards.

Gerard walks them backward until Frank is pressed against the wall. Their mouths meet so hot and gorgeous Frank kind of can’t believe it’s happening — no way can he have it all like this. But there’s Gerard’s halo, telling him that he _can._

“Fuck,” Frank gasps out as Gerard sucks his lower lip into his mouth. The way he’s kissing is so sinful no holy being should be able to do it. Frank tries to give just as good as he gets, but it’s hard to focus; the palpable connection between them, the way their hearts beat together, is just _mind-meltingly_ good, so much better than anything Frank’s had before. He scrabbles at Gerard’s ruined jacket in some haphazard attempt to keep up. Gerard had tucked his wings away, partially to be discreet and partially to fit in the car, but now Frank wants to see them again.

“So impatient,” Gerard chastises, even as he shrugs the jacket off and leans in to kiss Frank again.

“Can’t blame me,” Frank says against his mouth. “They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

Gerard pulls back just far enough to flick his eyes up and down Frank’s body. “Oh, you should see my view.”

Then he shoves a thigh in between Frank’s legs, and any response Frank could have made turns into a groan.

Frank’s hands skim along Gerard’s back, searching for something, anything to hold on to. His fingers find the two long rips in Gerard’s shirt where his wings had sprung from, and he pushes past the fabric to feel the satin-smooth feathers of his wings. As soon as he makes contact, though, Gerard jerks and makes a noise like he’s dying.

Frank pulls his hands back automatically. “I’m sorry, was that okay? I should have asked before—”

But when Gerard meets his gaze, his eyes are that unnatural bright-as-Heaven again, and his lips are parted. “Oh, no,” Frank says, surprised by the huskiness of his own voice. “You like that, don’t you?”

Gerard buries his face against Frank’s neck, biting down and then kissing over the spot. He’s just avoiding the question, but Frank still shudders. “Fuck, why are we still out here? I have a bed, you know.”

A minute later, Frank’s knees are hitting the back of Gerard’s mattress. Gerard falls on top of him, a grin on his face and his halo gleaming. Frank loves that he kept it around his head, like he knows the electricity it sends through Frank each time he looks at it and is reminded that he is Gerard’s and Gerard is _his._

With a hand planted on either side of Frank’s shoulders, Gerard hovers over him, and the look on his face says he’s having similar thoughts. Frank is able to endure about three seconds of that before he has to slide his hand around Gerard’s neck and pull him down.

“Come on, I want to see them,” Frank says as he tries to lift Gerard’s shirt. Gerard tears himself away from kissing Frank’s jaw for just a moment to pull off what’s left of the torn fabric. As soon as it’s gone, he spreads his wings out all the way, then curls them in slightly to envelop Frank. Frank’s heart skips wildly as he watches the movements. Seeing the wall of feathers around him makes him feel like he’s in another dream, but when he looks up to see Gerard’s face and his smooth, pale chest, he’s so fucking glad this is reality.

He gathers his courage and reaches up to trace his fingertips from Gerard’s collarbone to his shoulders, and then across the top ridge of his wings. Gerard gasps. 

“Must be a lot of nerves in there, huh,” Frank says absentmindedly, stroking his thumbs over the feathered base right by Gerard’s shoulders. Gerard grinds down into the air like he can’t help himself. The sight makes Frank’s mouth go dry. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

“You — have no idea,” Gerard gets out. Frank adds a little more pressure and Gerard _bucks,_ their hips connecting, and Frank sees stars. His jeans are suddenly _way_ too tight.

When Gerard’s eyes unglaze, he apparently notices that Frank still has a shirt on and decides he needs to change that. “What, it’s not like I’m the one with wings hidden underneath,” Frank defends as Gerard makes him sit up and yank it off.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you.” Gerard runs his hands over Frank’s chest, then leans down to kiss over his sternum. He’s warm, but Frank still gets goosebumps. “Speaking of wings, though. . .”

Frank takes the hint, petting Gerard’s wings again and running his fingers through the feathers at the top. Gerard groans and his head falls forward onto Frank’s shoulder. His hips move like they’ve got a mind of their own, but Frank comes up to meet him, eyes screwed shut as Gerard licks the junction of his neck and shoulder.

“Could you come from this?” Frank asks hoarsely, letting his fingernails drag slightly on the feathers. For some reason, the idea that Gerard could — _would,_ for him — makes Frank’s toes curl. “Just — just this?”

The sound Gerard makes is pure filth, and Frank has never, _ever_ felt this way before. He keeps stroking, even as Gerard’s fingers sneak underneath his belt buckle. This might be Heaven. He might be dead, and this might be Heaven after all.

“Maybe,” Gerard says between ragged breaths. His wings curl in further, even closer to Frank. “Only one way to find out, right?”

*

Afterward, they lie together in the middle of the bed, and Frank watches Gerard’s halo fade from a burning gold to a more subtle luminescence. His wings are still around them, holding Frank close. Frank loves seeing him like this. His eyelashes are so much longer than Frank’s ever noticed.

Then Gerard’s face goes completely slack, and his eyes slide closed. For a second, Frank wonders if he’s drifted off, but then he blinks. Frank realizes with a start that he might have been praying.

He touches Gerard’s cheek. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, focusing on him again. “Sorry, I was—” He exhales, smiling sheepishly. “I just needed a second.”

Frank asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, it’s okay.” As Gerard says it, though, his grip tightens on Frank’s waist. Frank waits. He’ll come out with it when he’s ready.

“It’s just,” Gerard whispers finally, “I never thought I would be able to have this. I always thought I’d be alone.”

All of Frank’s breath leaves him at once. He knows that feeling, too well. And he never thought it would end. He leans up, capturing Gerard’s mouth, to prove them both wrong. 

*

He sleeps peacefully next to Gerard that night, and he does not dream.

*

Frank expects to wake up next to a warm body the next morning, but when he rolls over, no one is there. He snaps his eyes open. Gerard isn’t in the bedroom, and his side of the bed is cold.

“Gerard?” No answer.

He’s probably just making breakfast or something. This isn’t a shitty college one night stand, and besides, he’s at _Gerard’s_ place. Wherever he’s gone, he’ll be back. That is, unless. . .his train of thought slows to a crawl.

Gerard had said that most guardians stay hidden around their charges. That it makes the job easier. Now that Frank is his charge, is Gerard invisible? Will Frank ever see him again?

He shimmies into his pants, buttoning them as he slams out of the bedroom to peer around the apartment. The kitchen is empty, as is the main room. There isn’t even a leftover pot of coffee. Oh, God. Maybe now that Gerard has been restored, he’s gone up to Heaven, and Frank isn’t going to see him again until he dies.

This isn’t possible. He couldn’t have lost it all overnight. He might not be too clear on how guardians work, but he knows _Gerard._ Frantically, he spins on his heel, searching for some evidence of life.

His gaze lands on a note taped to the fridge that he’d somehow overlooked. In Gerard’s handwriting, _Went to go see Mikey. Sorry, couldn’t wait._ The line after that is scribbled out with black marker. Frank’s mouth curls up. He has an inkling as to what it might say. After the mark-out is scrawled, _See you soon._

“Oh,” Frank says to no one, blushing at his own idiocy. Gerard’s brother. Of _course_ he went to see him as soon as he could. They have years to catch up on. “Well.”

For a lack of anything better to do, Frank gets the coffee beans out, and he waits for his angel to come home.

*

The next Sunday, Frank goes to Mass with his parents, but he skips Confession and sneaks onto the roof with Gerard instead. With the congregation all in one place, it’s easy to slink around the building and fly up.

Once they land, Frank peers over the edge and catches his shadow on the pavement below. The sight triggers a sudden memory. He turns to Gerard and asks, “I saw you up here once, didn’t I? The night after we met. But how did you get up if your wings didn’t work?”

Pulling out his cigarettes, Gerard makes an odd face. “I took the stairs.”

Frank’s eyebrows shoot up. The image of Gerard grumping up to the roof access and cursing his smoker’s lungs is almost too good. He gripes, “I know, don’t give me that look. But the urge to like, be up high, perch, all that, it didn’t just go away, okay?” 

“No, I get it.” Frank smiles sideways at him. Gerard has taken to cutting slits in his shirts so he can move his wings without having to completely undress; Frank’s denim jacket, his new disguise of choice, is slung over his shoulder. It’s a little snug on him, but whatever. Seeing it on him makes Frank’s heart dance.

Gerard lights the cigarette between his lips, then hands it to Frank and grabs another for himself. Frank takes a drag before saying, “God, I thought I was crazy when I saw that shadow.”

“I thought I was crazy for watching you.”

“You were watching me?” Frank feels heat start to creep up his neck.

“Yeah,” Gerard says. “Sorry, I know that’s creepy. I just felt drawn towards you, you know, but I didn’t know what it was yet.”

“No, it’s okay.” Frank turns to ash his cigarette and hide his blush. “I mean, it worked out.”

They sit down on the roof next to each other, feet propped against the shingles. It’s not exactly flat, but it’s not like they need to worry about falling. The sun feels good on Frank’s back. He reaches out, fingers tangling easily with Gerard’s.

“How did it go this morning with your parents?” Gerard asks around a cloud of smoke.

“Good,” Frank says, and for once it’s not a lie. “The guy from Beelzebub’s called and we set up an official practice for next week, so they’re letting me move back in, provided that I don’t sit around on my ass.”

“I’ll miss having you stay over,” Gerard says, and the suggestion behind it is not lost on Frank. He squeezes Gerard’s hand and grins.

“I’ll still come over,” he promises. Like he could possibly stay away. “Right now just seems like the chance to put my family back together. It turns out that we don’t really know each other. And, uh.” His mouth dries up, so he swallows and tries again. “And I figure if we can get to a better place, maybe I’ll be able to tell them about us, eventually.”

Gerard kisses his cheek. “I’m in no rush.”

“Really?”

With a shrug, Gerard says, “Yeah, of course. I’ve got you, I don’t care who else knows it.”

“It was stupid of us to start smoking,” Frank mumbles. “I just want to make out with you now.”

The light in Gerard’s eyes could power cities, seriously. “Later. We should wait until we’re on a horizontal surface.”

He’s probably right. The promise still sends a thrill through Frank.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Gerard says, “I’m glad you’re still going to church.”

“Why?” It just slips out. Of course Gerard is glad; he’s the angel guiding Frank to Heaven.

But Gerard doesn’t spout anything along those lines. He tilts his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I can just tell it’s good for you, even if you aren’t worshipping the same way as everyone else.”

“Yeah, well.” Frank can’t argue with that. Ever since he’s started to believe in a God who believes in him, Mass has brought him some much-needed peace instead of shame. “Is that what you did? All the years you went to church while you were fallen?”

“Sort of.” After taking the last drag, Gerard crushes his cigarette, and Frank follows suit. “I worshipped the same way, but I guess I went for a different reason.”

“What do you mean?”

Gerard turns Frank’s hand over and strokes his palm. Frank just watches him, doesn’t intervene as a few emotions flick across his face. “I figured, I don’t know. Even if I was fallen and God didn’t care for me anymore, it was still the right thing for me to do, because I’m better when I love someone.”

Oh, Lord. Gerard, the guardian angel who is wired to love unconditionally. Gerard, who is Frank’s. The overlap in those statements makes his heart thump so loudly it must be audible.

He has to kiss him, then, tilted surfaces and cigarette breath be damned. Gerard smiles against his mouth and makes a little noise in his throat. Distantly, Frank hears the sound of his wings ruffling, joining in on the happiness.

The world turns below them, church-goers chattering and cars rumbling along, but they pay it no mind. They don’t need to come down anytime soon.

**Author's Note:**

> a few links before you go:
> 
> first off, anna's incredible [art!!!!](https://venomwolves.tumblr.com/post/629069041607294976/he-is-trembling-from-exertion-by-the-time-his-gaze) please go show it some love ;-;
> 
> the atmosphere of this fic was inspired by a flash fiction piece i wrote earlier this year, which you can read [here](https://stoplightglow.tumblr.com/post/618108354259288064/holy-matrimony) if you'd like.
> 
> the poem that frank quotes on the apartment complex's roof is "love calls us to the things of this world" by richard wilbur. it really is quite lovely. you can find it [here](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43048/love-calls-us-to-the-things-of-this-world).
> 
> update: this fic has even [MORE art](https://stmichale.tumblr.com/post/629208914741936128/stoplightglow-you-fucked-me-up-with-echoes-so-now) now! thank you to stmichale on tumblr for this beauty!
> 
> alright, that's all. thank you for reading! <3


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